The Heir of Slytherin
by hiraetheart
Summary: During the rise of Grindelwald, Tom Riddle was just a teenager. An exceptional one, a manipulative one, but not inherently evil. Not yet. Then, seemingly by accident he met a girl with even more secrets than himself, and for whatever reason wanted nothing to do with him. He set out to unravel her secrets, only to get a little more than he bargained for.
1. Chapter I: Yourhful Beginnings

Author's Note:

Each chapter will begin with a quote either by or about Tom Riddle from the original books that relates to the chapter, and the chapters will rotate narrators between Tom and Ophelia, starting with Tom for chapter one, then Ophelia for chapter two, etc... Thanks for reading!

"I know what you are known as . . . but to me, you will always be Tom Riddle. It's one of the irritating things about old teachers. I'm afraid they never quite forget their charges youthful beginnings."

—Albus Dumbledore

Tom had never seen a more pathetic looking girl in his life, he thought, as he watched a pair Slytherin Seventh Years toss her book bag tauntingly back and forth over her head while she tried desperately to reclaim it.

"Please!" she pleaded, throwing herself at the boy, who held the bag far above her head. "You're going to make me late for Potions!"

She had Potions next, too? Tom racked his brain, but still couldn't remember ever seeing her in his class. How peculiar.

"Get off me," the boy snapped, smacking her away.

She stumbled back, losing her balance from the force of the hit and landing hard upon the floor. Gingerly, she ran a careful hand along the length of her reddening cheek, wincing slightly at the contact.

"Oh did the little baby get hurt," the first boy simpered. "You deserve that for not backing off when I told you to. In fact, maybe you deserve another!"

He raised an arm threateningly.

"That is enough, I think," Tom interjected coolly, stepping out of the shadowed corner he'd been observing from. "Get to class or I'll be forced to assign you both detentions."

"Oh, relax, Tom," the other boy protested. "It's only Ashwood."

Tom blinked. Were they really challenging him?

"I will not ask again, Penburry, Chaucer. Release the bag and leave."

Presumably sensing the dangerous edge to his voice, they dropped the bag as though it were ablaze, muttering their apologies. Satisfied, Tom turned around in time to pretend to be surprised by Professor Slughorn bustling down the corridor.

"Good work, Tom! I always knew you were a good boy, coming to sweet Ophelia's rescue like that!" Slughorn boomed. Good. He had noticed, Tom thought privately. If it would endear him more to his professors, then helping this girl wasn't a complete waste of time after all. "I'll have to give those two boys a stern talking to, to have members of my own house behaving so disgracefully..."

Ignoring his loquacious head of house, Tom turned back to the girl, Ophelia, and offered her a hand up. Slughorn would eat that chivalry up, and maybe even spread word to the other professors of his good deeds as well.

Ophelia had other plans, however. She looked at Tom's hand as though it were a terrifying spider and leapt to her feet of her own accord, backstopping several feet to put some distance between the two of them.

Tom blinked. That was certainly new. Tom was well aware that that most girls would kill to receive as much of his attention as this Ophelia girl was receiving, yet she acted as though the thought of touching him repulsed her, despite the fact that he had just come to her aid.

Before either Tom or Ophelia could make a move, Slughorn, the oblivious fool, stepped between the two, placing a thick, expensively robed arm around each of their backs. Tom noticed Ophelia fight the urge to jump away from the contact.

"Let's go, shall we?" Slughorn guided them down the hall to his classroom at a quickened pace. "We wouldn't want me to be late to my own class, nor we would I want my two favourite students to miss a second of my class. We're going to have a great deal of fun today, you know."

Two favourite students? Tom looked over the professor to get a better look at Ophelia, who seemed deadset on avoiding his gaze. She was one of Slughorn's favourite students? Her? How, then, had he never even seen her before? Was this just more of the professor's hyperbolic flattery or actual fact?

"And here we are, in you get." Slughorn ushered them in first, before making his way to the front of the room.

As he expected, one of Tom's devoted friends had reserved him a seat near the front. The only other seat available was at a table beside his, a mere arms length away, and Ophelia seemed to realise this. As he settled into his bench, he noticed her walking directly across the room to the far back corner to converse in low tones with one of her fellow Gryffindor classmates. After a short, but intense, conversation, the other Gryffindor, a girl named Delia that Tom knew fancied him, collected her things to slide into the seat beside his, while Ophelia fell into Delia's former bench.

"Hi, Tom!" Delia greeted brightly, all too pleased with her changed circumstances.

From the corner of his eye, Tom could see her batting her eyelashes in what he presumed she imagined was a coy manner, but really just made it look like she had gotten a bucket of sand tossed in her eyes. Sighing internally, he turned to her and returned her greeting politely, hoping she would allow him to work without further distraction.

He was wrong.

"Tom, could you help me?" she asked, twirling her hair in ringlets around her pointer finger. "I'm afraid I don't even know where to start."

"Reading the directions might be a good place to begin," he said evenly, clenching his fist under the table where no one could see.

She pouted, disappointed, but, to Tom's growing annoyance, she wasn't a quitter. "I know that, Tom. What I mean is, I don't understand the directions."

Tom thought internally that that sounded like a problem that had more to do with her reading ability than it had to do with him, although he kept those thoughts to himself. Instead, he raised his hand and waited for Professor Slughorn to come bustling over.

"Yes, my dear boy?"

"I'm afraid Delia is having trouble understanding the directions, Professor," he said, inclining his head to the embarrassed looking girl to his right. "I would have loved to help, but I don't think I'm qualified and I would hate to lead anyone astray."

The lie came out as smooth as silk.

"I think we both know you wouldn't be leading any students astray Tom," Slughorn stated, winking conspiratorially. "But I understand your concerns. What is it you don't understand, my dear?"

Slughorn leaned over a flustered Delia to help, giving Tom the peace he desired for the remainder of the class period. She didn't bother him again.

The class was over all too soon. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Tom made for the door, but was stopped by a voice so faint he thought he had imagined it.

"Pardon me, but, um..."

Tom turned to discover the source of the noise to be Ophelia, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, as though she would rather be anywhere but there. He had nearly forgotten about her.

"Yes?" Tom prompted, trying hard to mask his impatience.

"I just wanted to say thank you for what you did earlier," she explained breathlessly. "You didn't have to help me, and I don't want you to think I'm not grateful... So, er, thank you, I guess."

Before Tom could utter another word, Ophelia darted for the door as fast as her legs could carry her, as though fleeing a chimera, or his basilisk, but she wouldn't get away that easily. Her peculiar behaviour had piqued Tom's interest. Soon, he was in front of her, blocking her way.

"It's my job." He scrutinized her as she looked literally everywhere else but him, eventually focusing in on a point a few inches to the left of his ear. Tom nearly rolled his eyes at her blatant attempts to avoid meeting his gaze. "I'm a prefect."

She mumbled something that vaguely resembled "I know."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ophelia scratched the back of her head uncomfortably. "I said I know. I'm a- I'm a prefect, too. We've actually been going to the same prefect meetings all year... and the same Potions class, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the Slug Club..." her voice trailed off as she listed everything.

The more he heard, the less inclined Tom felt to believe her. Surely he would recognise her from at least one of those places? After all, there were only eight prefects! He tried putting a face to the female Gryffindor prefect, and soon realised he couldn't. He could name all the other prefects and envision their faces, even their personalities, yet the girl for Gryffindor was utterly vacant in his mind.

"How come I have never noticed you before, if you are indeed a prefect like you claim?"

Still averting his gaze, she dug around in the pockets of her robes, until Tom thought she actually had the audacity to ignore him. Finally, she smiled to herself in satisfaction and she pulled out a shiny badge branded with a large P down the middle, holding it up almost guiltily.

"I am a prefect, but people don't usually notice me. I just fade into the background." She dropped her face to the ground, muttering, "That's probably why you didn't notice me, either. I actually prefer it this way."

The bitter edge to her voice implied otherwise, but Tom didn't press the point. He didn't care in the slightest about her feelings. Feelings only complicated matters.

Cocking his head to the side, he stated, "Since you are a prefect, you had just as much authority over Chaucer and Penburry as I did."

It wasn't exactly a question, but he still expected an answer.

"Yeah, well..." Ophelia huffed out a weighty breath that may have been a weak laugh. "I don't really like flaunting my authority for my own sake. I'd rather not make waves."

Tom couldn't relate. As far as he was concerned, it was a weak mindset to work so hard to gain power only to not take full advantage of it.

"What, then, do you propose is the point of power, if not to rule those weaker than you?" Tom found himself asking, despite seeing the futility in asking such a question. It didn't matter what she thought.

"I find the most powerful men are the ones who gain power only to give it away freely," Ophelia stated firmly, all timidity temporarily gone. "Like Professor Dumbledore. He doesn't need to go around flaunting his power or hurting people to prove he's great!"

Tom got the impression she was thinking about someone in particular, based on her clenched fists and the slight tremor in her voice where anger got the better of her, but who? Did she somehow know of his own ambition? That couldn't be possible, he reassured himself. He was very careful about how he presented himself around school, so this girl had no reason to call him out.

"Is Dumbledore really that powerful?" Tom challenged. "After all, isn't he the only one everyone says who can defeat Grindewald and bring piece to our southern neighbours? Why avoid challenging him if he could win?"

"It's not that simple," Ophelia protested, taking a step back to match each of Tom's steps forward. "That matter is... complicated."

Tom continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Unless Dumbledore is too much of a coward to face Grindewald. So much for being the pride of the brave Gryffindor House-"

Only when his face snapped to the side and he registered the stinging in his cheek did Tom realise that he'd been slapped. She actually slapped him!

"Don't you dare say another word! You know nothing," she ordered furiously, holding the hand she had just used to assault him close to her chest. Almost immediately, however, her expression morphed from anger to fear, her eyes widening in alarm and mouth going slack as she realised what she had done. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm just-"

She shook her head, not bothering to finish the sentence, before fleeing the classroom with all the swiftness of a rabbit fleeing a ravenous snake. Tom was still too surprised recovering from the slap to stop her.

She didn't know it yet, but this conversation was far from over.


	2. II

"I can make bad things happen to the people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

—Tom Riddle

Ophelia hurtled into the bathroom on the third floor corridor, hardly believing her own foolishness.

She'd slapped Tom Riddle!

Why oh why couldn't she just control her temper where Grindelwald was involved? There she was, trying to to tell him thank you for helping her out when he didn't need to and she just had to attack him.

Maybe he'd forget. She just had to avoid him. He hadn't noticed her all year in the prefect meetings, nor two years as a part of the Slug Club, or when attending their classes together. She just had to make sure she was as invisible as she'd ever been.

She looked up from splashing her face with water from the faucet and frowned at her reflection. Her hair was growing too fast. She'd need to dye the white roots that leached into her pale blonde strands with the usual beauty potion before they grew too noticeable. Too bad there was nothing she could do to hide her eyes...

Ophelia shook her head abruptly, banishing the thought. There was no point worrying about what she couldn't control.

"Transfiguration," she muttered to herself. "I need to go to Transfiguration."

Almost mechanically, she pushed away from the sink and strode off to her next class, trying not to think of the potential consequences her actions would rain down upon her.

"Friends will only disappoint you, Ophelia," her uncle often said. "Remember that. Eventually, you will break each other's hearts. Think not of them, but For the Greater Good."

Ophelia hated that his words still had so much control over her, even then.

Don't make friends. Don't draw attention to yourself in class. Don't raise your hand. Don't do too well. Don't do too poorly. Be invisible.

Her only real problems went by the names of Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. Professor Dumbledore, for one, knew exactly what he was doing. It was his fault she was a prefect and also he who refused to accept her adamant refusal of the post. How was she supposed to fly beneath the radar when she had to attend meetings with the same nine people, including the Head Boy and Girl, every other week and then have the responsibility of disciplining others? How could people not notice her when he specifically singled her out in class to ask questions?

Sometimes Ophelia wondered if Albus Dumbledore was actively trying to get her killed. He wanted her to make friends and be herself, so he placed her in situations that made it extremely difficult to about be as interesting and unassuming as a bookshelf full of History of Magic texts. It didn't bode well for her longevity.

Slughorn, on the other hand, was an unwitting thorn in her side. It was exceedingly difficult to be average in potions, far more than one might think. To be average, one must share equal parts success and failure, but to fail in Potions class often led to wild explosions or other embarrassing side effects. Such mistakes draw attention, so she refused to make them. The only problem with that, was that Slughorn soon became convinced she was some Potions genius. He insisted she attend his "Slug Club," and made enough a fuss when she didn't that Ophelia was forced to accept that sometimes an empty seat was more conspicuous than a filled one. As with the Prefect meetings, such close knit gatherings made her edgy.

Ophelia arrived to the next meeting of the Slug Club when she was certain approximately half the people had already arrived. It did no good to be early and receive special attention from the Slug himself, nor was it beneficial to arrive late and have all the eyes drawn to her as she trudged awkwardly to her seat.

Slughorn was too busy conversing flamboyantly with Avery about Merlin only knew what to notice Ophelia slip into a seat a ways down the table, both seats on either side blissfully empty for a time. It wouldn't last. His parties always found themselves bursting with promising or well connected witches and wizards, to the point that it was a rarity to have any empty places left at all.

Tom Riddle glided in nearly last, welcoming the hollered greetings by those already seated, and followed closely by a slew of several mean spirited Slytherins. They reminded Ophelia of the sort that were often besotted with her uncle both in the Americas and on the Comtinent. The resemblance sent chills down her spine, despite being seated with her back to a hearty fire.

Tom passed his gaze across the room, sputtering to a stop when it landed upon her. Recognition flickered in his flat gray eyes, something that had certainly never happened before when he'd seen her. She looked away quickly.

"Tom!" Slughorn exclaimed jovially. "You're just in time! Find a seat, my boy. They're just about to start serving."

Ophelia felt, more than saw, Slughorn wave an expensively draped arm around the table at all the available seats, because she was too busy staring fixedly at a minute speck of dirt on the otherwise pristine silverware.

The chair beside her shuffled softly as it slid back and a lithe form gracefully fell into it.

Chatter broke out as goblets filled and platters were carried out swiftly, although Ophelia kept her lips firmly clamped shut and her sights set low. She could feel a familiar pressure building on the side of her head, like the beginnings of a migraine, although it took a moment to place it. Perhaps it was because no one had attempted to break into her mind in over three years, or maybe simply her surprise at someone daring to do so within Hogwarts, but Ophelia redoubled her efforts in maintaining her Occlumency shields, which had admittedly become quite lax in recent years. She had thought she was finally safe from that blasted branch of magic.

Was this a problem she could ignore until it went away of its own accord? Sadly, she highly doubted it. If the sharp, deliberate assaults on her psyche were anything to judge by, someone meant business, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she knew who that "someone" was.

"Is something the matter?" Tom inquired impassively, leaning forward. "You look pale."

Ophelia couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze, for fear that her composure would instantly vanish. She wanted to scream at him, to shout and flail as the pain mounted.

She didn't say anything, however. She didn't so much as flinch. The vindictive side of her, the side her uncle had cultivated over many years, desperately wanted to strike back, either by wand or by her own admittedly untested legilimency. She wanted to make him hurt the way she hurt. She would make him scream and know fear the likes of which he'd never dreamed possible. For a mere moment, the bloodlust was palpable in the air, like a thick mist that had descended in front of Ophelia's oddly coloured eyes.

"Might I ask what is so enthralling about the silver?" Tom said, breaking her reverie.

Ophelia blinked back the urge and immediately loosened her grip on her wand within her robes, though she didn't remember reaching for it in the first place.

With the adrenaline gone, she felt nauseous and exhausted and desperately in need of an escape. She pushed back from the table, ignoring Tom Riddle and his continued intrusions into her head, and carefully forced her feet to keep walking past until she was standing at Professor Slughorn's side.

He finished telling a jolly tale about, as far as Ophelia could tell, a mishap involving a claustrophobic vampire, a toothbrush, and an angry housewife he'd met in the Hog's Head Inn, before turning to face her, his large brows raised inquisitively.

"I'm sorry, Professor, but I feel unwell. I wish I could stay longer, but I'm going to take my leave." Ophelia smiled weakly. "Hopefully I'll be able to stay longer next time."

Slughorn looked only slightly disappointed. Ophelia got the impression he'd forgotten she was there.

"I'm sure I could find a potion-" he began, but Ophelia shook her head firmly.

"I'm sure all I need is some peace and quiet, but thank you, Professor."

She took a step back just as it felt like a dagger was driven straight into the middle of her forehead and stumbled.

"My dear girl, are you alright? Should I have someone escort you to the nurse instead?"

"N-no, I-"

"Don't worry, Professor. I can take her."

Ophelia hadn't noticed Tom's quiet gait creeping up behind her until he curled his long fingers around her arm. Dread immediately pooled in the pit of her stomach, only increasing her feeling of nausea.

Just as she was about to object, Slughorn charged ahead. "You're such a good lad, Tom. You take her straight to the nurse and make sure she gets something to bring a bit of colour back to her face."

"I really don't think that's necessary-" Ophelia began, not eager to spend any length of time alone with Tom Riddle.

"Nonsense!" Slughorn wagged his finger playfully at her, meanwhile giving Tom a fond look. "Tom, you make sure she gets to the infirmary, even if you have to drag her there by the scruff of her robes, and no complaining, young lady, or I'll be forced to deduct house points for disobeying a professor."

It was a hollow threat, but Ophelia knew a losing battle when she saw one, so she kept her mouth shut.

"Of course, sir," Tom agreed, inclining his head respectfully. "I'll make sure she's properly taken care of."

Ophelia wondered briefly if she was paranoid for reading too far into that last statement. At least when her uncle said to "take care of" something, he generally meant to kill or destroy it. No, Tom wasn't her uncle. Everyone loved and respected him. He couldn't possibly...

Dazed and defeated, Ophelia allowed herself to be steered out into the corridor, before breaking free and purchasing several feet to distance herself from Tom. The way he stared was unnerving.

"This is not the way to the infirmary," he observed, after a few minutes of walking in tense silence.

"I'm not heading to the infirmary," she replied shortly.

Though her pace was quick, Tom easily kept up, and left Ophelia no manner of quick escape outside of a full on sprint. If such behavior wouldn't have served to only heighten Tom's annoying interest in her, she might have actually considered it.

"Hmm," was Tom's only response, which was slightly worrying.

They fell back into a thick silence, their footfalls echoing down the long hall. Ophelia's damned conscience gnawed at her about slapping him unprovoked earlier that day. If she hadn't done that, he wouldn't spare her a cursory glance, she wouldn't have caught his notice. On the other hand, maybe he had since earned it, for trying to break into her head. She knew precious few legilimens, and even fewer who hadn't strayed into the Dark Arts. All had been exceptionally gifted, but most allowed themselves to be consumed by power. What good wizard breaches another's privacy by reading their mind anyway? Perhaps that's why Tom worried her. He reminded her too much of him.

Abruptly, Tom punctured the quiet. "You despise me."

He said it in a toneless, matter of fact way, not quite a question, but Ophelia treated it as if it were one.

"I don't hate anyone."

She could hear the amusement in his voice when he said, "You're actions say otherwise. You deliberately switched seats to be as far away from me as possible, you haven't looked me in the eyes once since we've met, you've barely spoken a word to me, and that's not even taking into account hitting me this morning."

Ophelia sighed. "I'm sorry about that. I should have controlled my emotions better."

"You're very protective of Professor Dumbledore," he mused thoughtfully. "Why."

It struck Ophelia as peculiar how even when he was asking a question, he never really asked.

"The professor is highly respected by many. He's powerful. Everyone knows that."

"Perhaps." Frustration crept into Tom's expression, as Ophelia felt another sharp prod at her mental wards. Conversationally, he stated, "The only ones who know Occlumency are those with something to hide."

Ophelia kept her face carefully blank, although she didn't care for how direct this conversation was getting.

"I can't say I know what you mean. Occlumency?" She laughed hollowly. "I've never heard of it."

His eyes narrowed. "You don't, do you?"

"As far as having something to hide, however, I'll say only this: just because we care for our privacy doesn't mean we're protecting some forbidden knowledge. We're all entitled to keeping our thought our own."

"I think you're lying," Tom said, stepping in front of Ophelia. "I think you know exactly what Occlumency is. And I think you are hiding something. The only question is what."

"What would I have to hide?" Ophelia asked, a twisted grin finding its way to her lips. "I'm nobody." She walked past, stepping around him without hesitation. "I really am sorry about your cheek, though. Perhaps you should go to the nurse in my place."

He didn't follow, or so much as look back to watch her go. Neither of them found their way to the infirmary that night.


	3. III

"You're the one who is weak. You will never know love or friendship. And I feel sorry for you."

—Harry Potter

• — • — •

Tom prided himself on a great many things, among them his ability to read people. Even without Legilimency, he was remarkably adept at simply being able to look at someone and tell them exactly what they wanted to hear. It served him well in earning favour with both professors and admirers alike, but when he looked at Ophelia, he felt blind.

It wasn't like Tom to get so distracted. She was just one pathetic girl, after all. Unimpressive in her classes and virtually invisible outside them, Tom hadn't even realized she existed for years. It was almost unnatural. Tom made a special effort to take note of the other students, looking for exploitable weaknesses to give him an edge, yet somehow she'd entirely circumvented his awareness.

It was puzzling, and Tom hated puzzles.

More curious still, and perhaps a bit sloppy on his part, was the fact that she didn't tell any of the professors about his gift for Legilimency, even when he continued his efforts to bypass her wards in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. Surely she knew going to a professor would immediately force him to cease? And why didn't the prospect of being found out provide sufficient danger to convince him to stop, as well?

If he had to admit, he'd almost say he'd become obsessed with breaking her shields, though he attributed it to the fact that he disliked being inferior to another in anything. The fact that her Occlumency was somehow better than his Legilimency was maddening. She didn't even flinch at his attempts anymore, not since the first time. Either her poker face had improved exponentially, or she hadn't really been trying to shield herself before at all, and Tom wasn't sure which thought was more irritating.

"Tom, you keep staring at that girl. Do you fancy her or something?" Rabastan Lestrange drawled, looking at him from over a glass of something Tom was pretty sure wasn't pumpkin juice.

Fennella Fawley, on Lestrange's other side, cocked her head up in sudden alarm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rabastan," she sneered. "Tom would never like a plain looking girl like that, would you, Tom?"

"No, of course not."

It was troublesome that they noticed, however. He'd have to be more subtle.

"Did she wrong you, then? Why else would you stare at that mudblood?"

"Is she a mudblood?" Tom asked before he could stop himself. He'd managed to trace his own ancestry back to the great Salazar Slytherin armed only with a middle name, but he still couldn't find a crumb's worth of information on Ophelia Ashwood when she was sitting mere feet away. "How can you be so sure?"

Lestrange shrugged carelessly. "I don't recognize her, so obviously she isn't pure-blooded."

Tom felt it redundant, but was inclined to say anyway, "She could still be a half-blood."

"Mud blood, half blood, they're all the same to me. Although..." he grinned wolfishly, "she doesn't look half bad, for not being pure. I wouldn't mind giving her a tour of the dungeons, if you catch my meaning."

Fennella looked scandalized. "You can't be serious! I should tell your mother and you'll never give anyone a tour of anything ever again.

Rabastan brought his goblet to his lips, unperturbed. "Please do. The crone won't be able to castrate me after you tell her and she has a stroke."

Sensing a losing battle, Fenella turned grudgingly back to Tom, keeping her eyes glued to Ophelia across the room. "So why were you staring at her? Did she cross you? Do you want us to get even?"

She sounded hopeful, a dangerous smile dancing across her lips.

"There is no need. I have this entirely under control," Tom replied evasively.

Even as he said it, Tom doubted the truthfulness of his words.

III

Christmas holidays came, and with it left most of the school. The idea of returning to the orphanage was laughable, so Tom found himself among the dozen or so who stayed. When he strolled down to breakfast that first morning, entirely alone, it didn't escape his notice that a certain someone had stayed behind as well. Tom racked his brain and couldn't seem to recall if she had always stayed behind, another oversight on his part. Did she have no family to return to, or was there a reason she didn't want to? Perhaps she really was a muggle born after all.

Just as Tom took a seat down the table (there was only the one, to account for all the missing students), a spattering of the usual owls swooped in bearing mail and various small packages, except he was startled by, not an owl, but an augery swooping in low by his ear, dropping a letter that Ophelia reflexively caught between two fingers.

Tom tried not to watch, but his eyes were drawn to the way she stared down the envelope, frozen, as though afraid it might catch fire. It didn't seem to be a howler, so her reaction was unwarranted, though Tom dearly wished it were one, because then he wouldn't have had to guess at her peculiar reaction. It was something on the road between longing and fear, with perhaps more than a little guilt sprinkled in.

Abruptly, Ophelia's head shot up, and Tom's first thought was that she'd caught him watching. Too late he realised she wasn't looking at him at all, but past him, at the staff table. By the time he turned around, he'd missed whoever it was she was really staring at, and when he refocused his attention the paper was already igniting, unread and unopened, into a pile of ashes on the table. A second later, she pointed her wand at the remains and they too were gone, a look of grim determination on her face.

No one noticed, but she hadn't uttered a word the whole time. That chronically average witch had cast silent magic and not a single person thought twice about it. Except Tom.

He missed nothing.

The longer he thought through the facts, the more his frown deepened. She possessed both Occlumency and the ability to cast silent magic, things that required years of ceaseless effort to achieve, and only with an incredible amount of innate talent. Even he had only managed to perfect the skills a summer prior, so the fact that another his age had somehow managed it as well irked him far more than it should have.

If he were entirely honest, he'd say he was actually growing to despise Ophelia. Someone else as gifted as Tom should have caught his attention and been subject to the school's rapture the same way he was, not barely scrape by on Acceptable's in all her classes.

He was going to discover what that girl was hiding no matter what, and the holidays just happened to be the perfect time to get to the bottom of it, no more distractions.

What Tom didn't realise then was that just as he was closely watching Ophelia, he, too, was being carefully observed. Each minute flash of annoyance and anger that cracked through his mask didn't escape Albus Dumbledore, nor did the way the boy watched his classmate.

III

Ophelia, Tom noticed, had an annoying habit of vanishing into thin air. Not literally, of course, since no one could Apparate within Hogwart's Grounds, but if he hadn't known any better he would have thought she'd somehow managed it.

When he did manage to finally find her, however, he was surprised to find she wasn't alone. He'd gotten the impression she was something of a loner, only really keeping the company of her fellow Gryffindor prefect, Ephriam, if anyone at all.

Tom approached from behind to the sound laughter, pasting a pleasant smile to his face.

"Hello, Rubeus. Ophelia."

They both started, jumping back several feet from where they had been standing. Ophelia stiffened.

"Riddle," she said, nodding curtly.

"Oh, hullo Tom," the large second year greeted back, impervious to the tension in the air. "What're you doin' out here?"

"I could ask you the same," Tom replied mildly.

"Being outside is hardly against the rules," Ophelia cut in before Hagrid could answer, sending the younger Gryffindor a sharp look. "So I don't see why it matters to you."

"I'm just being polite. There are so few of us here now, after all. All the Slytherin's are gone besides me."

It was by design, but he didn't mention that fact.

The snow shuffled restlessly behind their backs, despite the seemingly empty expanse.

Riddle quirked his head to the side. "What was that?"

"It was-" Hagrid began excitedly.

"A figment of your imagination, I'm sure."

Hagrid paused, hiding his confusion poorly. He looked quizzically at Ophelia.

Tom took the opportunity skim over Hagrid's mind, but was soon forced to stop. It was easy enough to gain access, but once he was inside, all he saw was a dizzying mess of circling images and garbled words,. He'd never felt anything quite like it, outside of the other times he'd tried to gain access in the past. Tom theorised the boy, nearly seven foot at twelve years of age, had a fair share of giant blood. It explained his height and the way his brain felt nearly inhuman, at least.

Just as he was about to withdraw, he felt a sharp spike of, not quite pain, but something that was the mental equivalent of a hard shove. He needn't have looked far for the cause, based on the way Ophelia narrowed her eyes at him.

He hadn't really considered the fact that she might have been a legilimens as well. The message was loud and clear: _you can go after me, but stay out of his head_. Tom supposed she'd never actually tried Legilimency on Hagrid, then, if she imagined he'd met any sort of success. No matter.

In the time it took Tom to blink, she was on the ground, face down in the snow.

"Sunspot, yer know that's not v'ry nice!" Hagrid admonished, leaping around to seemingly chastise the air. More snow rustled. "And I'd though' better of yer, too, Aeliolus."

Tom couldn't help but get the impression he was missing something. Given what he knew about Hagrid's penchant for dangerous beasts, and also the fact that whatever it was, he couldn't see it, the field vastly narrowed, yet, somehow, Hagrid and Ophelia both seemed to be able to see the creatures.

Tom knelt down and offered Ophelia a hand. Much like the first time he'd done so a month before, she lifted her head and stared at it as though it might zap her, before brushing it aside and getting up on her own.

"I think you've spoilt them, Hagrid," she muttered, rubbing her shoulders and grimacing. "Now they crave attention, and get feisty when you ignore them."

"Aw, they're jus' a bit excited, tha's all," he defended earnestly. "Not used ter bein' noticed."

"I certainly notice them now," she agreed a bit sourly. "By the way you talk, you'd think they're puppies."

Nonetheless, she relented and began stroking the back of her hand against the air, air that then began humming with contentment.

"Do yer want to pet 'em, Tom?"

"Pet... what, exactly?"

"The thestrals, o' course."

Internally, Tom recoiled. He wasn't superstitious enough to believe they were bad luck, but having a creature right before his eyes that he couldn't see was unsettling in itself.

"Rubeus, he can't see them," Ophelia responded before Tom could articulate any words. She seemed relieved, for whatever reason, as though he'd passed a test she hadn't expected him to. "I'm sure he doesn't want to."

Hagrid's face fell in disappointment.

"Why not?" Tom said, if only to prove her wrong. "Show me where."

Hagrid excitedly reached forward, only to find Ophelia got there first. She gripped his forearm loosely, just above the wrist, and guided it forward until it came into contact with something hard and leathery. He could feel warm breath against his arm, and could even see it disappearing into the winter air like a puff of smoke just as suddenly as it appeared.

Ophelia immediately let go, backing up several steps.

"Rubeus?" Tom began, quickly thinking of a way to be rid of the younger student. "If you'd like to feed them, I'm sure you could find fresh meat in the kitchens."

He casually mentioned directions on how to sneak in.

Hagrid's beetle-black eyes lit up with barely contained glee. "Yer really think the elves would give me some?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Before Tom could so much as blink, he was already trudging his way furiously through the snow back up to the castle steps. It reminded Tom that, beneath his monstrous size, he was still merely a child.

"That was nice," Ophelia said suspiciously. It sounded less like a compliment and more like an accusation.

"I'm known for my generosity."

"Among other things."

"Oh? What else are people saying?"

"Mostly that you're some kind of genius," she admitted grudgingly. "But your companions are real pieces of work."

"Would you judge me by the friends I keep?"

"Yes," she said shortly.

Tom was a bit surprised by the honest answer. "That doesn't seem fair."

"You can tell a lot about a person by who they choose to surround themselves with."

"What about you?" Tom countered, letting his hand drop from the Thestral. "What should I assume about you, who doesn't surround yourself with friends at all? I'd think your character of more suspect than mine."

Ophelia nodded in thoughtful agreement. "Definitely."

Again, Tom was startled by her answer. "There's an easy way to remedy that you know."

"Do tell," she sighed, sarcasm seeping into the space between her words.

Tom responded anyway. "Make friends."

She laughed breathily. "I don't need you to tell me that, Riddle."

"Did I say something funny?"

She fought to keep her face straight. "Let's just say, I'll make friends if you do."

Tom raised a brow. "Are you trying to imply something?"

"I just think you know as much about having friends as I do."

Again, she kept her eyes lowered, not meeting his.

"I thought we had at least agreed that I have plenty of friends, even if we don't agree on their integrity."

Her lips twitched. "If you recall, I called them your companions," she reminded him. "I never said anything about friends."

Tom thought back and realised she was correct.

On impulse he took a step forward, saying, "Why not help each other then?" She waited for him to continue. "You have no friends, and you claim neither do I."

"What are you getting at?" she asked, though it was obvious she knew exactly what he was implying.

"Let's be friends." He, of course, had no need for friends, but if she thought they were, eventually he'd discover what she was hiding, and it was obvious she was hiding _something._

As the old saying went, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

A/N

Wow this chapter was absolutely rotten to write. I mustve gone back and edited it five different times and I'm still not sure. It seems kinda slow. Am I imagining it? Well, pace is going to pick up soon.


	4. IV

"For many months now, my new target has been- you."

 _-Harry Potter and the Chamber Of Secrets_

III

Ophelia was temporarily too flabbergasted to say anything, so she simply stared.

"Riddle, I'm not sure how to put this gently, but I'd sincerely rather French kiss a dementor than be your friend."

Too late, it occurred to her that she'd said that aloud. She ducked her head in embarrassment.

"Curiously enough, I think that's the first honest thing you've said to me," he said, an indecipherable look on his face.

"Er, I didn't mean it like that," she mumbled, rubbing her neck awkwardly . "I may have exaggerated... a bit."

"I'd like to see how else you could mean it," he mused.

Unsure of what else to say, Ophelia busied herself with warming he hands.

"As I've already laid out the benefits of such an arrangement, please, explain what concerns you."

Ophelia didn't say anything. Words would not have improved the situation, and only stood a chance of making things worse, so she kept silent.

"Would you tell me what I've done to offend, at least?"

"It's not you," she admitted at last, albeit grudgingly. Waving a hand through the air, she continued, "You just remind me of someone I don't like to think about. Besides, I don't really _do_ friends."

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose imperceptibly. "Tell me, who do I remind you of?"

Ophelia took a step back and, just to give herself something to do that included not looking at Tom, began petting the thestrals again. She wished Rubeus would get back already.

"It doesn't matter. You're not him. I know that."

And she did, even if sometimes it was hard to remember. Just looking at Tom gave her the same powerful, all consuming feeling that Ophelia got from being around her uncle. The feeling was indescribable, like looking out over a thunderstorm from a mountain top. You know you're apart of something big and possibly dangerous, but it still inspires awe to the darkest depths of your soul.

"Obviously. I don't work this hard just to be someone else."

That made the beginning of a smile touch her lips. "Why do you work so hard, then? Obviously you're ambitious, but what for?"

The question seemed to surprise him. A guarded expression fell across his face.

"Why bother acting like I'm less than I am?" he countered pointedly. "If I can be the best, then I will be. I'll make sure the whole world knows my name one day."

Ophelia didn't doubt him.

She knew she saw a darkness in him, but, then again, there was a darkness in herself, too. What made him different was that the strings of destiny pulled harder on him than they did on others. Just like her uncle. Tom had such a potential for good, like Dumbledore, or evil, like Grindelwald, he only needed to be guided the right way. Perhaps he was leaning slightly more Dark, but that was because of the influences surrounding him. Obviously, he wasn't completely rotten, though, so there was still hope. He didn't need to stop those guys from harassing her that first day they officially met. If Ophelia could make him sway good, then perhaps it would make up for everything she wasn't able to do in the past, for not even trying to stop her uncle while she could have, and for running away like a cowards. As foolish as it sounded, she felt like she owed it to the world. She could spend her whole life atoning and it still would never make up for what she'd spent half her life apart of,

And if she was completely honest with herself, she sincerely needed a friend.

"Alright, Rid- er, Tom." she empathized his name, unsure of how she felt about it on her tongue. "I accept your proposal. You're on."

The corners of his lips turned up slightly, not quite into a smile, but in a way that showed he was pleased. Already, Ophelia was regretting her decision.

"To a fruitful beginning."

When he held out his slender hand, Ophelia hesitated only a beat too long before clasping it. He was surprisingly warm and his grip was firm. In the same way she hesitated a moment too long before shaking, he held on too long before letting go.

The cunning glint in his eyes foretold he had ulterior motives to their deal, but, then again, so did she. Although it was obvious neither trusted the other, more meaningful relationships had been built much on less.

After all, Ophelia thought to herself, as the old saying goes, keep your friends close...

"No need to look so worried," Tom added, at last releasing her. "I probably won't hold you to your promise."

"My promise?"

"To french kiss that dementor, naturally." With a satisfied smirk, he turned to leave. "I'll definitely be seeing you again soon."

Possibly the most jarring part of that exchange, Ophelia decided as she watched him make tracks through the snow back to the castle, was that Tom Riddle had made a joke. Or, at least, she hoped it was a joke, and not a thinly veiled threat. Before she could ponder the potentiality of the latter, Hagrid emerged, larger than life, from the massive double doors, carrying his own impressive weight's worth of meat for the thestrals.

A/N

It's only just come to my attention that what I've been using to show I'm cutting to a different scene hasn't been showing up? Yikes, that must have made things a lot more confusing. Sorry about that!


	5. V

" _Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."_

 _—Albus Dumbledore_

 _III_

Confusion.

It seemed to followed Tom everywhere, stemming from the moment people returned from holiday to watch him drag Ophelia over to the Slytherin table. It was a tough decision, deciding to bring her over, but he needed to gain her trust and he couldn't do that if she was never around. The only question was if he'd go to Gryffindor or if she'd come to him, which wasn't much of a question at all. There was no way he would abandon the noble house of his ancestor to go fraternise with those reckless fools over in Gryffindor.

"You're not sitting with them," he said, taking Ophelia by the upper arm and steering her away from the rest of her House.

"Umm, actually, yes, I am. In case you haven't noticed, I am, in fact, a Gryffindor."

Tom fought the sudden, strange urge to roll his eyes. Ever since she'd agreed to join him, she'd been on a constant crusade to discern just how thin his patience could be stretched.

"Obviously. I'm not blind," Tom said. "But you'll be sitting with mine from now on."

"I don't think the professors will approve," she replied, looking apprehensively over his shoulder at all the Slytherins sliding into their benchs.

"Professor Slughorn would probably be delighted," he pointed out wryly.

She couldn't argue with that. "He's not really the one I'm worried about."

"If anyone questions it, we're just strengthening inter-house ties."

"That's the greatest load of nonsense I've ever heard," she muttered underneath her breath, allowing Tom to steal her away nonetheless.

When they finally found seats across from Rabastan and Avery, Fenella asked sweetly, "Tom? What's this?"

Tom fixed Ophelia with a contemplative look that neither of the two girls particularly liked one bit. "This is our new... friend. Ophelia."

Fenella pierced Ophelia with a glare so dark it was like she thought "friend" was suddenly a synonym for "potential murder victim."

Ignoring her, Ophelia waved a hand lamely and said, "Er... hello there."

Rabastan leaned forward, all business. "So, Ophelia was it? Care to settle a bet?"

"Do I have to?"

"That's what I like to hear." He flashed her one of the signature dark grins Tom had seen him give plenty of women before, to varying degrees of success. "Tell me, are you a mudblood or a half blood?"

"Oh, _that_." Ophelia smiled, doing her best not to seem too relieved. "I'm neither."

"How can you be neither?" Fenella scoffed, at the same time Avery doubtfully asked said, "Are you a pureblood?"

"Do tell," Rabastan drawled lazily. "Did you Perhaps hatch from an egg?"

"You caught me."

"That's not a real answer," Knott interjected.

Tom privately agreed.

"If you don't explain, I'll just assume you're a mudblood," Fenella warned, not sounding particularly upset over the fact.

Ophelia shrugged, ducking her head. "Be my guest."

"Looks like Fen has at last met her match," Rabastan noted with amusement. "How about you just tell me and leave everyone else in suspense?"

"How about you tell me more about this bet," she countered.

"It's really nothing," Tom cut in. It wouldn't do for her to realize how often she'd come up before.

"Then I guess the relative muddiness of my blood is nothing as well..." she conceded with razor sharp pointedness.

Despite maintaining a veneer of disinterested calm on the outside, Tom gritted his teeth in irritation.

"Very well. If you must know, Fawley bet Lestrange you were a muggleborn, and because they are both children who live for the sake of argument, he bet otherwise."

Fenella's expression soured at what Tom thought was an extremely accurate description of them both, while Rabastan nodded in acceptance.

"How much?"

"Pardon?"

"How much did you bet?" Ophelia inquired, addressing Rabastan, "How much is my blood purity worth on the market?"

"Three galleons," Rabastan admitted.

It was a lot to waste on a foolish wager, but to wealthy purebloods such as themselves, it was doubtlessly pocket change.

"I'll tell you," she decided, to Tom's surprise. She'd always been so evasive about her upbringing when he tried to brooch the subject in the past, he'd assumed she'd be the same way this time around. "On one condition."

"This is ridiculous," Fenella complained testily.

"I'm listening," Rabastan said, the same gleam in his eye that he got whenever he wagered with Fenella.

Ophelia didn't say anything immediately, choosing instead to trace her finger around the rim of her goblet. "I'll tell... for a cut of the winnings. One galleon from both the winner and the loser."

Rabastan's smile widened. "I knew I liked you for some reason. We'll get along swimmingly. You have yourself a deal."

"Hold on, _I_ didn't agree," Fenella complained, blissfully unaware of how thoroughly she was being ignored.

Staring squarely at the untouched food, Ophelia said, "My father was indeed a muggle."

"I told you-" Fenella began, triumphant, but Tom cut her off with a raised finger.

"Let her finish." Tom did not miss the use of past tense.

"Yeah, don't crack open the celebratory bottle of firewhisky quite yet, Fen," Rabastan agreed.

Quieter, as though remembering something unpleasant, Ophelia murmured, "And my mum is.., a squib."

"See? That still counts as wizards' blood." Rabastan held out a hand to Fenella for his winnings expectantly.

"Raised by a squib and a muggle? That practically makes her a mudblood by default," she challenged, looking to Tom for support.

He fought back his the flash of anger that came with the comparison. _He_ had been born to a muggle and a squib, after all.

"I never said they raised me," Ophelia muttered bitterly. "My mother abandoned me the second I showed any signs of magic."

"That's why you stayed at Hogwarts through the holiday," Tom concluded shrewdly. "You don't have anywhere else to go."

For a fraction of a second that felt more like ten, her eyes widened in panic, meeting Tom's. He'd never before realised what peculiar shades they were, one sky blue and the other pitch black, as different as day and night. He couldn't believe that, after nearly three months of watching her, he failed to notice, but then he thought back to her seemingly evasive nature. For whatever reason, she'd hidden them on purpose. It had to be a clue to... something. But what?

"Yeah." She swiftly averted her gaze back to her plate. "That's why I don't leave."

Her recovery was so good, Tom almost, almost believed her.

She kept quiet through the rest of the meal, not opening her mouth again to even demand her two galleons of winnings. For all intents and purposes, she might as well have been back at her own House table, considering Tom had encountered houseplants with more awareness. A mandrake could have held a conversation better, fatal screaming and all.

The owls finished dive bombing their respective mail recipients, and just when Tom thought nothing could tear Ophelia from her reverie, Fenella opened her mouth. In her hands she held the twin letter to the one Ophelia received over the holidays, the one she'd promptly burned.

"Oh? What's this? Who'd be sending our resident orphan mail?"

 _"Give it back_!" Ophelia demanded sharply, all softness gone from her features.

"Why? I didn't take it from you or anything," Fenella said, smiling. "I found it. You wouldn't have even realized it existed if I didn't say anything."

" _Give. It. Back_!"

A chill seemed to wash over them, and Tom was reminded of one of their first encounters when he'd felt such raw, bloodthirsty intent in the air around her. He'd nearly forgotten about that incident, but, looking back, Tom was sure that was what had piqued his interest in her in the first place.

Even though Fenella looked slightly cowed, her pride held strong, preventing her from backing down. "Make me, mudblood." To prove her point, she stood up, displaying the letter exuberantly for all to see. "I think we deserve to know more about our new friend."

So quick Tom would have missed Ophelia raising her wand had he not anticipated it, Fenella crashed against the stone wall behind her and crumpled limply to the floor.

Not looking the slightest bit remorseful or embarrassed by the silence that had descended across the Great Hall, Ophelia said, " _Accio letter_."

The paper darted out of Fenella's now weak grasp and into Ophelia's.

Dumbledore reached them moments later. "That's enough of that, I think."

The Deputy Headmaster knelt beside Fenella, incanting a quick slew of charms under his breath. At last, she groaned and fluttered her eyes wide.

 _"That bi_ -" Fenella cursed vehemently when her disorientation faded.

Dumbledore cut her off. "I'm sorry to interrupt what I'm sure would have been a very colourful exclamation, Miss Fawley, but I'm afraid I must insist you pay a visit the Hospital Wing. Mr. Lestrange, if you would escort her."

"Nothing would make me happier, Professor," he replied sarcastically, rising half heartedly to his feet. "Let's go."

He nudged her side with his foot and proceeded out the Hall without waiting.

"I can't believe this, Albus," Slughorn puffed, coming up beside him. "Quite out of character, for both of them..."

Tom thought otherwise, but didn't say anything.

"I'm sure you're correct, Horace," Dumbledore agreed. He turned his disappointed gaze to Ophelia, who stood, stiff as a board, still clutching her letter in a vice-like grip. "Come along, Miss Ashwood. I believe we have much to discuss."

Mutely, she matched his strides out into the corridor, neither speaking further.

"Run along, students." Professor Dippet's magically enhanced voice rang through the ball, cutting off the renewed chatter and slew of snickers. "Off to class with all of you."

As the masses migrated to the doors, Tom found it painfully easy to blend into the crowd and follow Ophelia and Professor Dumbledore from a distance back to his office. For a time, Tom wondered if the professor had placed wards around the room to prevent eavesdroppers, so long did the silence stretch, but eventually Ophelia broke through the thick silence.

"I know what you're going to say, Professor, so don't bother."

"I see. Lemon drop?" the professor offered casually to the sound of a desk drawer sliding open.

"You didn't bring me here for sweets, sir," Ophelia said, sounding impatient. "I know I shouldn't have attacked Fenella, I know I could have gone to get a professor, and I know there was a million ways to deescalate the situation without using wands."

"Feel free to lecture yourself on my behalf then, because I'm afraid I'm not quite sure what to say as of yet, and you'd save me quite a lot of trouble."

A pause. "I had to act fast, sir. I didn't have time to waste getting someone and she'd already refused to give it back when I asked. Plus, she was getting on my nerves and none of those other options would have been quite so satisfying. She was going to read one of _his_ letters."

She said that one word, his, with so much blatant contempt that it seemed to hang in the air like a weight.

Dumbledore didn't say anything at first, and Tom could imagine the way his contemplative blue eyes were probably piercing Ophelia, always seeing far too much

"There is no crime in saying his name," he finally said, softly.

"I hate him," she spat. "If I never have to say his name again, it will have still been too much. After all he's done- I- I-"

"Perhaps you want to hate him, but love is so much more powerful than hate, my dear child," Dumbledore said kindly. "He has done... terrible things, but he was only ever kind to you. No one of enlightened mind would blame you for caring."

"You're wrong, Dumbledore. I won't waste my love on a monster, not even him."

Wryly, making his doubt of her words obvious, he commented, "Were affairs of the heart only so rational."

"Let's get back to the part where you give me a years worth of detention so I can leave."

Tom couldn't help but be impressed by her boldness, speaking to a professor with such open disrespect. Gone was the fake meekness she she hid behind. Evidently, she trusted Dumbledore a great deal.

"Do you think you deserve a year of detentions?" Dumbledore asked.

"You could always revoke my prefect badge instead," she offered hopefully. "I'm sure that would teach me my lesson."

"A very nice try, though it would have been far more convincing had you not implored me to give the badge to anyone else the second you received the owl."

"Can't blame me for trying."

"Indeed, I can't." He sighed. "No detention this time, Ophelia, but if this happens again, you'll give me no choice."

"Are you sure about this, sir?"she wondered, sounding skeptical. "I mean, I don't want detention or anything, but I did attack that Slytherin girl. Won't it look bad for you if I go unpunished?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Your concern, although appreciated, is unneeded. I am still going to detract twenty-five points from Gryffindor, and give you homework, of a sort."

"It's still not to late to take my prefect badge, sir," she reminded him without much conviction.

"I'm sure you would love that, so consider keeping it a part of your punishment." Tom could hear the amusement in his voice, before he continued, more grave, "As for the homework, I want you to think about what it means to move on."

"I have moved on-" she started.

"The fact that you can't even open G-"

" _Don't say it_!" she hissed.

"Not saying his name gives him far more power than saying it does," Dumbledore said with infuriating patience. "But I won't speak it, if that's what you wish. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes. I won't believe you've truly moved on until you can read his letters. They are just words. He cannot get to you within these grounds. However, I'm not going force you to read them. It has to be your decision or it's meaningless."

"With all due respect, don't hold your breath, Professor."

"I have only the highest faith in you."

Footsteps behind the door told Tom his time was up. He was already rounding the corner at the end of the corridor by the time the door clicked open and Ophelia took her leave.


	6. VI

Ophelia wanted to break something.

Of all people, she would have thought that Dumbledore would understand! And who was he to talk about moving on anyway? Ophelia had moved on! Well, at least she had moved on enough. If she hadn't, she reasoned, she would never have been able to run away from her uncle in the first place. What did it matter if she'd completely moved on anyway? It wasn't like she ever considered going back to him. Not seriously, at least...

Back in her common room, the letter appeared to stare daggers at her from the end of her four poster, daring her to open it. The parchment was thick expensive; it always was with her uncle. He had what he liked to call "discriminating taste," but it only made for a more expensive fire when she burned the letters in the end.

Still, she glared back at the letter, unsigned, as per usual. Thank Merlin for that, too, or Fawley would have seen and Ophelia would have to leave before she told anyone just who exactly Dumbledore was harboring within Hogwarts walls.

On impulse, she stuffed the envelope into her thrice used, thrice beaten up Ancient Runes textbook- no one would be snooping through _that_ any time soon- and tossed both into the scattered confines of her trunk, locking it tight. Out of sight, out of mind.

III

One thing the teachers always leave out when detailing the consequences of ditching class was how genuinely therapeutic it was to be free as a bird while everyone else was suffering through lessons. There's really no other feeling quite like it. Sure, Ophelia had doubtlessly earned a one way ticket straight to detention, but it seemed worth it at the time. She skipped supper, as well, not wanting to feel the pressure of everyone's eyes on her due to that spectacle she'd put on at breakfast, and, just to be thorough, breakfast again the next morning.

She'd really blown it. It would be amazing if a single person in the school didn't know her name and face now. Years of trying to remain in obscurity, all ruined because of one girl and, Ophelia was forced to admit, her own temper. The problem could have been avoided if she'd been paying attention, but she hadn't been expecting another letter so soon. Usually, her uncle only sent one letter every few months. Had something happened? Was he injured?

Just the thought made her chest tighten with worry. Dumbledore had been more right than he realized. She still cared about her Uncle, despite all he'd done. How much easier it would be if she could flip off those emotions, like a switch. She didn't want him hurt, or especially dead, even if it enabled him to hurt others. The thought that something happened was almost enough to convince her to dig up the letter and rip it open. She didn't, though. If she opened it and found out he was in trouble, no force in heaven or Earth could have kept her at Hogwarts, and that was a chance she couldn't afford to take.

A sound not unlike the crunch of gravel alerted her to someone behind her, but she didn't make any moves to acknowledge them until they spoke.

"I agree, that was quite a show you put on yesterday, missy, but you're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"How'd you know I was here?"

Ephiriam, her fellow Prefect, clucked his tongue in disapproval. "The professors are having a field day looking for you, you know."

"I'm going to go to class, so tell them they can punish me at their leisure in a half a hour."

"Tell them yourself." He nudged her side to indicate she should make room and plopped down beside her. "I had brought you food, but it looks like you don't need it."

He nodded to the spread before her of buttered toast, glistening berries, soft cheese, and various flaky pastries.

"Someone told me how to raid the kitchens over holiday," she explained at his non-question."The house elves were a little... overenthusiastic."

She offered him a grape, but he waved it off.

"It's really no wonder why no one can find you," he mused. "I nearly fell to my death three times just trying to climb up here."

"That's sort of the point."

"Wow, just as delightful as always, I see," he laughed. "I suppose I have to admit, it is quite a view."

They took in the grounds, blanketed by a fresh layer of snow, to the students slipping and sliding over the half frozen lake and then the powder capped trees of the Forbidden Forest. It seemed the only place that wasn't covered was the small square upon the shingles of Gryffindor Tower where they sat.

"You didn't answer my question," Ophelia pressed after a moment. "How did you know I was here?"

"Easy. I saw you slipping through the window when I was coming through the portrait hole past curfew one night about a year or so ago. I'd nearly forgotten about it, to be honest. I figured maybe it wasn't a one time thing." He shrugged. "Although, I don't know how your neck is still perfectly unbroken, coming up here as often as I imagine you probably do. Plus, it's freezing."

"No one told you to come up here, you know. Your delicate constitution would be perfectly safe and warm in the common room," Ophelia countered, wrinkling her nose in annoyance.

"I know, but what are friends for if not to risk their necks, literally in this case, to smuggle food to each other?"

"I didn't know we were friends."

He brought a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Of course we're friends, my dear, frozen companion. Why wouldn't we be?"

"I hardly talk to you," she said shortly.

He waved that off. "You hardly talk to anybody. I figured you're just quiet and who was I to disturb you? By my count, I talk to you most, because of Prefect meetings, and therefor I should be considered your best friend. I'm hurt that you disagree."

"My condolences."

"I don't think you mean that."

"How astute."

"I'm hurt."

"Sounds like a you problem."

His brows furrowed as a thought struck him. "Wait, I haven't been overthrown by that Slytherin bunch have I?"

Despite everything, Ophelia found herself laughing, the dark mood lifting slightly. "You can't be overthrown if you were never on top to begin with."

"You're breaking my heart. Truly."

"Anyway, I don't think they'll want me hanging around anymore."

"You think?" he asked, handing her a slice of toast and cheese.

"I attacked Tom's... er... 'friend'. Would you want me back for another round?"

"No way, but Tom's strange."

"I don't think he would appreciate your honesty nearly as much as I do."

"Tom's a reasonable bloke. I'm sure he loves me," he said, imbued with an impossible amount of confidence. "For what it's worth, though, he looked frustrated that you didn't show at breakfast, or at least as frustrated as I've ever seen him, which is still hardly at all."

"Yeah; whatever you say." Ophelia stood up, brushing off his words. The food conveniently folded itself away in a descriptively small basket gifted upon her by the kitchen elves. "Unless you'd like to join me in detention later, we should probably get going."

He groaned in exaggerated agony, rising to his feet. "Can't have that, can we? What sort of example would we be setting for the kiddies, two prefects in detention?"

Ephiriam slid through the open window first, but only after first extracting promises from Ophelia stating she'd catch him if his hands slipped. The fact that she'd managed it dozens of times without incident didn't seem to reassure him much.

"Longbottom, I swear, if you don't get a move on, you won't need to worry about slipping. I'll push you clean off this Tower here and now," she threatened, her patience evaporating faster the closer it got to the start of Defense.

"I'm going, I'm going. No need to get violent." he reproached.

Inside, they parted ways, him to fetch a book he'd promised Augusta, a fellow Gryffindor of their year, and Ophelia heading straight to class.

It was truly one of those chance situations that seemed so meaningless at the time, but snowballed into something much bigger. Had he not gone back for that book, she would not have been walking down that second floor corridor alone, too rushed to notice she was being followed until two more stepped into her path, trapping her between them.

Slowly, she trailed to a stop, her eyes darting back and forth between the two girls before her. "Fawley, Black. Hello."

"Blood traitor," Walburga greeted with a surprising amount of civility in her tone, words notwithstanding.

"Mudblood," Fenella spat, less politely.

So this is how this encounter is going to go, Ophelia thought, sighing internally. Just great.

"I'd meant to apologize for yesterday," Ophelia began tentatively, deciding it was best to bite the bullet and get it over with before things escalated. "I really shouldn't have drawn my wand on you."

"Oh, is that all?" Fenella seethed. "You made a fool out of me in front of the entire school!"

Ophelia bit down her retort, something along the lines of "You really didn't need my help. That was all you," and said in a calm, pacifying tone, "That was never my intention, but I'm sorry if that was the result. I only wished to protect my privacy."

"I don't care why you did it!" she shouted, furious. "Diffindo!"

The blow bounced back before Ophelia even consciously realised she raised her wand to cast a shield charm.

"You're disgraceful, Fenella, to allow this half-breed to get the better of you twice," Walburga sniffed, wrinkling her nose in disgust at her friend. Beside her, Fenella went cherry red. "Allow me."

"Let's just talk ab-" Ophelia began hastily, only to be cut off by the force a blow cracking into her shield. She managed to maintain a hold on her wand, but only barely. She narrowed her eyes at the dark haired girl. Walburga had managed to cast such a powerful spell without so much as a whisper. "I refuse fight you."

"We're not asking you to fight!" Fenella shot out a quick succession of curse after curse, slashing her wand wildly through the air without much technique. "Only to learn your place and take what's coming to you!"

Even though Ophelia took several harried backsteps to mitigate the brunt of the force, her shield held. The narrow corridor caused the spells to bounce off in unpredictable directions, often leaving scorch marks engraved in the walls.

Two people. Ophelia could take on two people without anyone getting hurt, right? If she didn't mind sending them for an extended stay in the hospital wing, this would be over in a matter of seconds, but she did mind. She'd already hurt Fenella once and that alone made her sick to her stomach. She was past hurting others for her own benefit. That wasn't who she was anymore. She was better than that.

Running was one option, although not necessarily a good one. They'd simply follow and hex her when her back turned. Performing a full body bind was a compelling choice, except for the fact that by the time she bound one girl, the other would have ample time to attack with her shield down. That only left-

Her train of thought sputtered to a stop when her back collided with something solid, something that definitely wasn't a wall.

"Miss us?" one of the boys stage whispered in her ear, sending chills ricocheting down her spine, before wrapping an arm around hers in a tight hold. The other boy followed suit.

She recognized them, of course. They were the same two who'd taunted her months ago, refusing to return her bag until Tom ordered them to. They'd been a thorn in her side for years.

"That's the difference between you and us, freak!" Walburga spat, now close enough to touch, had Ophelia not been restrained. "We think things through. We understand the use of alliances to achieve a common goal."

"I've never done anything to you three," Ophelia said, straining herself to look at everyone except Fenella. "Why are you doing this? Aren't you worried a teacher will see?"

"Only speak when you're spoken to," Fenella commanded, sounding more confident now that Ophelia was incapacitated. "Actually, on second thought, we can't have you calling for help until you've learned your lesson..."

"I'll do it," Walburga volunteered.

Ophelia opened her mouth to shout, only for nothing except a slight whistle of air to escape her lips as Walburga cast another silent spell.

"What should we do with you? Wouldn't it be fair to knock you against a wall until you fall unconscious, like you did me?" Fenella pondered, tapping her wand contemplatively. "Maybe you need a more permanent reminder of what happens when you step out of place. A scar that not even the nurse can remove seems like a good place to start..."

Ophelia stopped struggling, since each grab for freedom ended only in a more constructing hold by her captors. Pinpricks dances along the tips of her fingers from where their grip already constructed blood flow.

Too the best of her limited ability, she stood up straight. She'd take whatever was coming and then move on with her life. Really, didn't she have it coming, just a bit? She'd started this ridiculous feud and it was high time she accepted the consequences , whatever they may be. It wasn't like they could do too much damage in the middle of Hogwarts, either. It was slight consolation that there was no real, mortal danger, and that she was no stranger to pain.

Ophelia let her eyelids flutter closed, allowing herself to grow distant from the situation. Their words grew muted and far off as they discussed what to do with her.

You could easily break into their minds via legilimency, a seductive voice whispered in the dark recess of her mind she'd retreated into. Project images, horrible, awful images, into their mind until they claw at their eyes and rip each other apart in their confusion. It would hardly be a trial to drive the whole lot of them mad.

Ophelia shook off the dark thought as quickly as it came.

That's not who I am, she reminded herself firmly.

Ophelia knew they must have come to some sort of agreement the moment she slammed into the hard, stone wall. Black spots danced across her vision, but she wasn't lucky enough to fall unconscious, as Fenella had the day before. The taste of blood coating her mouth told her enough about the state of her tongue, and the back of her head felt like it surely must have been flattened from the collision, but otherwise she was well. Well enough. No permanent damage.

Fenella said something, not that Ophelia could hear it beneath her own thoughts.

 _I'm not here. It'll be over soon. I'm not here. I'm not here_.

Fenella's nails dig into Ophelia's jaw as she hurled more insults her way, growing increasingly incensed when Ophelia didn't open her eyes or otherwise react.

 _I'm not here._

"Stop this foolishness!" a new voice thundered, cutting through Ophelia's mental isolation and making her eyes fly wide.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Sorry for the hold up. I'm kind of in the middle of final exams so I've been busy haha. I love comments tho, they really keep me motivated to keep writing, so keep them coming. Who do y'all think the voice is?_**


	7. VII

Tom's tone was icy, but not nearly as bone chilling as the look he fixed upon them, brimming with barely concealed rage. He directed his attention first to the unfortunate souls restraining Ophelia against the wall.

"Did I not tell you last time we spoke that that was enough of your foolishness?" He took a step closer, suddenly seeming far more dangerous barehanded than all four of the wand-wielding Slytherins before him put together. "I'm sure you're not defying me on purpose, friends. You are much too smart for that."

The smarter of the two retreated back several large steps, making as though he hadn't just been caught red-handed. "Of course not, Tom. We were only playing. No harm done."

The slower of the two shot this friend an incredulous look, no doubt wondering what his definition of "no harm" was if it included being slammed against stone.

"Your presence is being missed in class," Tom ordered, deciding he'd deal with them later. They were hardly worthy of his attention anyway. "Leave."

"Who are you to give us orders?" Walburga sneered, her uncharacteristic silence broken at last. "You're no better than that filth over there."

She nodded to Ophelia, who kept her expression pointedly blank, gingerly assessing the back of her head.

Fenella, not so subtly, stomped on her friend's foot.

Walburga Black had never been one to cave into the will of others, a trait Tom might have respected were they not constantly at odds. Despite all he'd done to prove himself, she insufferably thought herself his better. If she only knew the blood that ran the rough his veins...

Many days Tom wondered if he might despise her.

"What can you do?" Walburga said, brushing off Fenella entirely. "Give me detention? Take away house points? Do you forget I'm a prefect, too? You can't touch me."

Tom smiled at her misguided confidence. "How's Orion?"

Her sneer momentarily slipped, taken aback at the seemingly unrelated subject change. His implication hung freely in the air for a moment. When at last it filtered through her mind, however, a flicker of fear registered on her face, until it was squashed by the usual haughty disdain.

"We're leaving. Come Fenella," She turned on her heel, her robes flapping exaggeratedly at the movement. "Watch how you speak, Riddle. You won't always be safe within these walls."

"As always, it was a pleasure, Walburga," Tom said, his disarming smile not faltering. "I look forward to spending more time with you and your cousin."

Fenella looked hesitantly at Walburga's retreating back, then at Tom, then back to Walburga again.

Tom sighed. "I must admit, I expected better of you, Femella. I'm disappointed."

"Tom, I-"

"Don't peddle me your excuses," he said smoothly. "Just get out of my sight."

She but her lip and Tom got the impression she was fighting off an onslaught of tears, but she left to go chase after Walburga before any could fall.

 _Really_ , Tom thought, _What does she have to cry for?_

"You should go a little easier on her." Ophelia stared off after Fenella, looking troubled. "I, well, I sort of deserved it a little bit, didn't I? I want after her first."

"It doesn't matter. She knew I didn't want you targeted. She disobeyed me. She deserves far worse than a mere scolding."

Ophelia shook her head, grimacing in immediate regret at the jarring movement. "I find it hard to believe that you'd take the high rode if I cursed you into a wall right here and now."

"I wouldn't give you the chance," he replied shortly.

Ophelia shot him an appraising look. "You're lucky my duelling days are behind me, Tom, or I might have taught you a thing called humility. You have it in short supply."

"Curious words for someone who needed me to rescue you just now."

"I'll give you that." She paused, making a face like she'd rather give a Hungarian Horntail a bubble bath than say what she was about to. "I- er- suppose I should thank you. Again."

Tone shook his head. "Don't hurt yourself. We're late to class, anyway."

III

It soon became evident that Ophelia and Fenella would never be friends, though some truce seemed to spring up between them in the coming weeks. Most accepted her presence at their table and in their common room, or at least they were too afraid to voice their grievances, which personally suited Tom just fine. Even Walburga kept her insults to a minimum, his threat to her cousin no doubt still at the forefront of her mind.

The others seemed more accepting, almost to a troubling extent, especially when it came to Rabastan. Tom wasn't sure he appreciated yet how well the two got on, but, alas, he had greater concerns. With no new leads forthcoming, his immediate interests had swayed far from Ophelia, though not enough to prompt him to banish her from his circle entirely.

She'd only been meant to be a temporary distraction, after all, but she'd done the job too well, distracted him too much from his greater goal: finding the lauded Chamber of Secrets. If it existed, and if the legends were to be believed that it could only be opened by the heir of Slytherin, who more suitable than Tom to rediscover it?

He'd practically torn apart every nook and cranny in the school, all to no avail, despite months of sleepless nights spent creeping around after dark. Tom was well aware how mad he must have looked, whispering what must have seemed like indecipherable ramblings to brass doorknobs and suspicious paintings. He'd found it, eventually, even if it was in the literal last place he'd thought to look.

Which of his foolish ancestors had thought to lock it away in a sink, least of all one in the girl's restroom?

Because no Gaunt had attended Hogwarts for several generations, by the time Tom stumbled upon the Chamber it made the Gryffindor team changing room look about as sanitary as the hospital wing. The air hung heavily so far below the school, reeking of mould and death, complemented by the bones of whatever vermin had found itself down there without a means of escape.

Tom had been... disappointed, to say the least. Where was the Slytherin monster? He'd expected it to meet him- maybe even attack him- but all was still. The dust had long since settled into thick sheets along the ground, undisturbed for decades, if not longer. No monster had roamed the chamber in a long time, no living creature larger than a common rat had so much as set foot in there for many generations. The place was barren even of cobwebs.

And then he found it- or rather felt it first. A slow rumble of the earth, too smooth for an earthquake, coming from what at first seemed a mere statue. His creature slept on, deep beneath its second skin of dust that painted him grey, unaware of his new company, his new master.

The Basilisk was a mighty creature and to say he disagreed with Tom's assessment of their relationship wouldn't quite have done him justice. He'd lived a thousand years, far longer than any others of his kind, by being placed into an enchanted sleep whenever a Slytherin Heir left Hogwarts, so he wasn't keen on being ordered about by a fifteen year old.

 _A king does not bow before a lamb_ , he'd hissed.

Tom bristled at the memory. Draconem, as the serpent called himself, only grudgingly agreed not to eat Tom on the spot. He tried smuggling food from the kitchen, all to which Draconem turned his scaled nose up at, claiming it wasn't fresh enough. "Fresh," Tom eventually discovered, meant living.

Whether it was the food that didn't consist of rats, or how tirelessly Tom worked to clean the chamber, or gratitude at at last being awoken, Draconem grew to grudgingly accept Tom's presence, even to the point of ceasing his comments about how delicious Tom smelled, which was something of a relief. Tom wasn't satisfied, however. He'd make the basilisk see in him a new master, as he hadn't since Salazar created him, but Tom was patient.

At half past two in late March, the only thing that tore Tom from his continued cleaning and exploration of the Chamber was the fact that the O.W.L.'s were fast coming. Professors were piling on borderline abusive levels of homework, and although that wouldn't have normally posed a problem for Tom, the lack of sleep was catching up, something that certain keen-eyed teachers didn't miss.

Tom eased out of the Chamber, stone grinding on stone as it slid shut behind him. His fingers barely grazed the metal door handle when it flung wide and a figure crashed into him.

"Tom!" Ophelia gasped. "What are you doing here? And," she paused, suddenly equal parts confused and stern as she narrowed her eyes, "why are you coming out of the girl's restroom?"

"What are you doing out at this hour?" he countered, placing his hands to each of her shoulders and taking a measured step back.

"I could very well ask you the same thing."

There was an edge to her voice he couldn't quite identify. Distrust? Suspicion, perhaps?

"I don't need to explain myself to-" He froze, straining his hearing? Had he imagined the soft sound of footsteps padding down the corridor?

When Ophelia stiffened up right beside him, he knew he hadn't. Before he could so much as blink, Tom felt himself being shoved back into the restroom, the door only narrowly avoiding catching on his robes as Ophelia pulled it shut.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor," Ophelia said, the words reaching Tom slightly muffled through the closed door.

"A nice evening for midnight strolls, it seems," Dumbledore mused pleasantly. "What enchantments bring you out of bed so long after curfew?"

Ophelia laughed awkwardly. "The girl's restroom in Gryffindor Tower was flooded and I couldn't wait until morning to go."

"Not a single girl in your entire house knew the banishing charm?" Dumbledore asked genially, without accusation.

"Well, I wouldn't have been very popular if I woke up the whole house, would I?" she pointed out with surprising sass.

Tom could here the amusement in Dumbledore's tone when he prompted, "I see. And might I ask what's the truth?"

Ophelia sighed, deflated at being caught. "There's no answer I can give that will keep me out of trouble, so why bother?"

"Give it a try and we'll see."

Tom, bracing himself to be hung out to dry, did a quick cost-benefit analysis of reopening the chamber to hide. On the one hand, he had the potential to avoid Dumbledore's scrutiny, but on the other, if he miscalculated the timing, he would practically hand the existence of the chamber to the old man on a silver platter, not to mention that Ophelia would still know something suspicious transpired.

"I should probably come clean here," Ophelia began after a moments hesitation. "If I'm going to get in trouble might as well do a thorough job of it, I suppose. You see, I was studying for an Ancient Runes exam with James Wales and Annabelle Lovegood in Ravenvlaw Tower last night."

"Commendable behaviour."

"I know that look, professor. They aren't my friends. We were merely bonding over our mutual desire not to fail the class, so don't look so pleased."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he responded mildly. "Continue."

She grumbled something under her breathe Tom couldn't quite make out. "We didn't realize it got so late, so they said I could stay on a couch in the Common Room until morning to avoid trouble. I had planned on doing just that, but I... er... I wasn't lying when I said I had to go to the restroom, only the second I opened the door I heard crying and Myrtle- Myrtle Warren, you know- nearly blew my head off. I'm rather fond of my head the way it is, thank you very much, so I let her be, coming here instead."

Dumbledore paused to ponder her words, probing for another lie. Evidently satisfied, he said, "I see. We can discuss your punishment more on the way back to your bed."

"You could let me off just this once, Professor," Ophelia grumbled, her voice growing distant as she accompanied him down the hall. "No one would ever know."

The last thing Tom heard before they turned the corner was Dumbledore's soft chuckle.

Tom waited several minutes to ensue the coast was clear before slipping from the restroom. The return trip to the dungeons was uneventful, not so much as a ghost crossing his path now that Dumbledore was sufficiently distracted.

At quarter to four, he still laid awake in his four-poster, stiff as a board and staring far past the ceiling to wear his thoughts communed with the stars. The same thought incessantly bit at the edges of his mind, chasing off sleep: If Ophelia had showed up even a minute earlier, nothing Tom could have done would have prevented her from staring directly into the eyes of the Basilisk as he attempted to reseal the chamber. Nothing could have stopped her from dying then and there, and it bothered Tom more than he ever thought it would.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _I wish I could say I had an excuse for why this chapter took so long but~ I didn't. I had serious writers block and ended up revising how I want the plot to go, not the ending, but just how I get from point A to point B._**

 ** _Anyway, writing for Walburga Black is the Worst. I don't want to make her quite as exaggerated as JKR did, bc she's still a person with layers, but I still need to try and keep her essence, which is annoying. Who else finds it interesting in canon that she's only a year older than Voldemort? When I discovered that I couldn't not include her._**

 ** _I know Tom isn't quite the Big Bad he's portrayed as in the books, "pure evil" and all, but I think it's more believable that the evil happened as a progression. At some point he was just a kid, maybe more cold and calculating and talented, but not born evil. I'm going to explore his whirlwind into evil a lot, like the catalyst and everything, so that will be fun._**

 ** _Thoughts?_**


	8. VIII

Ophelia hadn't exactly been lying, but she could tell Dumbledore knew she hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the whole truth, either. Worse- he

knew she knew that he knew, and that knowledge pressed down on her like an invisible weight, like gravity had been ramped up a thousand fold. Even so, he didn't press the subject as they walked the length back to Gryffindor Tower.

"About Warren..."

Dumbledore peered down sideways at her in interest. She was by no means short, but the headmaster towered at least a head and a half taller, making her feel like a misbehaving child in his presence.

Ophelia cleared her throat and began again. "About Myrtle... What are you going to do?"

Dumbledore seemed to ponder this. "I imagine a word with her Head of House is in order. Have you an idea what grieves poor Miss Warren?"

Ophelia hesitated only a beat before answering, "I've heard rumors that she's bullied. Being muggleborn, she's had a- difficult time adjusting, and some people don't make it easier."

The professor nodded, as if this didn't surprise him.

"She probably doesn't go to the professors out of fear that it will only make it worse," Ophelia said, not entirely sure what she was tryin to imply.

"Maybe," Dumbledore said thoughtfully, "what she really needs is a friend. Ah, we're here."

Ophelia looked up at the scowling Fat Lady, who no doubt resented being awoken at this hour. "Rachis."

The portrait swung wide, however, Dumbledore held her arm to prevent her clambering on through. "About your punishment..." Her heart fell. "You are prohibited from tomorrow's Hogsmeade trip."

Ophelia blinked, then had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. "You are too cruel, sir."

"I have my moments," he agreed, eyes twinkling, before urning around to brook conversation with the portrait of the suspicious sage.

They both knew there had been no way she was going to leave the castle anyway. Not now, nor ever.

III

"What do you mean you're not going to Hogsmeade with us?" Rabastan asked, annoyed. "You weaseled your way out the last two trips, too."

"I did not. I already had plans, but now I can't go because I got caught sneaking around after hours."

"Oh?" He perked up, lowering his goblet from his lips and wiggling eyebrows suggestively. "What were you up to, if I might ask? Was a boy involved?"

She sent him a flat look. "Yes."

Tom stiffened beside her.

"My dear, sweet Ophelia, out during the witching hour with a boy?" Rabastan clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "I'm so very disappointed."

"I'm not 'your' sweet anything," Ophelia pointed out with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes.

He stared, a minute frown pulling at the corners of his lips, before seeming to remember himself and replacing it with his signature lascivious grin. "Was he anyone I know? Do I need to teach him a little due decorum?"

"Rabastan," Tom sighed. "I find it hard to believe you've never been out of the dormitory after curfew."

"Not with a boy, no."

Tom didn't seem amused.

Rabastan raised his hands in defeat, indicating he was backing off. "If I'm the only one concerned with my dear friend's virtue, then so be it.

Fenella snorted derisively at the same time Avery muttered, "You've never cared about a woman's virtue in your life."

"It will be no difficult feat to sneak you into Hogsmeade with us," Tom said, sparing her little more than a distracted glance. "You're coming."

"Do I not get a say in this?" Ophelia huffed. "I'm the one who'll get detention if I'm caught, after all."

"I'll consider giving you a say if you agree with me."

"You're a right dictator, Tom."

The shadow of an amused smile flickered across his face at that. "How you flatter me."

Fenella leaned forward, brushing Rabastan out of her way with a casual elbow to the ribs. "We really shouldn't force her if she doesn't want to come, Tom."

Ophelia privately agreed and was, for the first time, grateful for her contribution to a discussion, although Tom silenced her with a sharp look.

"The matter is settled," he said.

III

The matter was most certainly not settled, Ophelia thought to herself, as she abandoned her Slytherin friends- could she even consider them as such?- and crept off to the library while they were distracted by the sea of students flowing out the school gates. They probably wouldn't even realize one of their ranks was missing until they were halfway through a round at Rosamerta's.

Ophelia chuckled at the thought of Tom's stony expression when he finally realized she pulled a fast one. The audacity of him, thinking he could tell her what to do...

"Is something funny?"

Her heart stopped. No way. Her luck couldn't be that bad, could it?

Her grin slipped into a grimace as she slowly turned around to discover the devil himself, wearing the same stony expression she'd envisioned with such relish only a moment before. It had seemed so much more endearing when she imagined a couple miles of distance between them.

"Hey, Tom. Er, why aren't you in Hogsmeade?" she asked meekly.

"Because I saw that little stunt you pulled coming from a mile away, probably before you'd even thought of it."

"What gave me away?" It's not like you can probe my mind, she stopped herself from adding.

"Why? So you can catalogue the information to become a better liar in the future?" His tone remained serious, but something light danced in his dark eyes. When it became clear she wasn't about to beg for the information, he shrugged. "You submitted too quickly."

She narrowed her eyes, a suspicion dawning. "You're saying you knew I was lying because I was too... agreeable?"

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you meant. You think I'm disagreeable."

He opened his mouth to speak, only for his words to be cut off by a shout from down the corridor.

"I've been looking for you! I'd heard you got banned from Hogsmeade this go around, so you get the coveted job of tutoring me in Potions!" Ephiriam Longbottom strode up to them, wedging himself between her and Tom, and beamed with delight. "Looks like you're free, too, so you both get the honour of saving my Potions O.W.L."

Tom merely frowned when Ephiriam snaked an arm through his own to guide him down the hall. Although she didn't fight his pull herself, Ophelia could hardly believe Ephiriam's audacity at treating Tom so casually, and neither, it seemed could Tom. He sent her one last nonplussed look before, like a shutter across his face, he replaced the frown with an endearing smile.

"I'm not sure how much help I'll be, but I'll try my best," he said with such false humility Ophelia couldn't help but roll her eyes.

He certainly was never that polite to her.

In the library, it became evident that Ephiriam had reason to be worried about his Potion's O.W.L.

"My mum said that if I didn't get O's in all my exams she'll rip off my arms and beat me over the head with them," he informed them matter-of-factly, turning a page in the Advance Potions Making text. "And I wouldn't put it past her, either. She's a Healer. She could do it and then reattach them after so no one would be any the wiser."

"She sounds like a formidable woman, if not entirely suited to the healing profession," Tom noted, his charisma still dialed up to a blinding extent.

"Couldn't you have just asked Slughorn?" Ophelia complained. Spending Saturday stuffed in the library, laboring over a textbook was not by any means ideal.

"Not really." He licked his middle and forefingers to turn another page. "I have it on good authority that he's gone to the Three Broomsticks for a pint. Even if he got back to the castle early, I doubt he'll be in any state to teach."

Out of the corner of her eye, Ophelia noticed Tom's expression turn contemplative, hardly more than the slight pinch under his eyes, a wrinkling at the bridge of his nose, but still definitely there. If she had to guess, she'd say he was cataloguing the information away.

Ephiriam did not make a willing student, considering his enthusiasm when he'd abducted Tom and Ophelia before. He barely lasted an hour, when his brother came in, asking if they'd seen Augusta. Ephiriam seemed more than grateful to excuse himself, his mother's threats on his life entirely forgotten. As it turned out, they needn't have left to search at all, since the girl in question appeared not five minutes later.

"Ophelia?" She spun around to discover who'd spoken. Augusta scrutinized her, her hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight that looked almost painful. "A word?"

"Of course," Ophelia said, puzzled. Without a second glance at Tom, who watched the two with concealed interest, she rose fluidly from the table and walked a safe distance away, just in case Tom had any illusions about waves dropping.

Immersed between the bookcases in the Magical Catastrophes section of the Library, where Tom wouldn't have the opportunity to read lips or any other contrived way of putting his nose where it didn't belong, she inquired, "Is something the matter?"

Augusta blinked back apparent disorientation and then focused back on Ophelia. "I was told to give you a message."

"Alright..." Ophelia said slowly. "Let's have it."

"'I found it.'"

"Found what?"

Augusta cocked her head. "What did you say?"

"Found what?" she repeated.

"What are you talking about?"

"You just said someone in Hogsmeade told you to tell me they found something," Ophelia reminded her, puzzlement making her flustered. "What did they find?"

Augusta shot her a look like she thought she'd gone mad. "I never said that. In fact," she looked around at the books towering around them, "Why am I even wasting my time here? I should be in Hogsmeade."

Shaking her dark blonde head in irritation, she briskly pushed past Ophelia, out of the aisle and out of the library.

"Well, isn't that peculiar," Tom observed.

Ophelia looked up, expecting him to be standing at the foot of the C row. He wasn't. Peaking around the corner into the next aisle over, she found him leaning casually against the bookcase, hands tucked into the pockets of his robes, approximately parallel to where she and Augusta had stood.

"You and I really need to have a discussion about boundaries," Ophelia said wryly.

Scarcely looking at her, he pushed away from the shelf and drew closer until they were nearly chest to chest. She fought against the urge to buy back distance between them, knowing he was only toying with her for her "space" comment.

"Then speak." He leaned in closer, waiting. He was close enough for Ophelia to discover his eyes were not wholly black, as she first thought, but rather painted with deep flecks of amber that seemed to burn like fire under the reflective lantern light. Too late, she realized that if she could make out so much detail, no doubt he could do the same for her far more easily. Finally, he pulled away, smug. "That's what I thought."

"You still shouldn't eavesdrop. It's rude."

"And yet I still know more than you do," he mused.

"I doubt it. You're just saying that to be pompous."

"You'd know as much as I were you slightly less... noble."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. Nobility is good."

He shrugged smoothly. "So they claim, but there's a reason they always say the good die young."

"Perhaps if everyone was good, then that wouldn't be the case," she told him pointedly, moving to tidy up their table.

"I wish you the best of luck with that."

"It's cute that you think this has nothing to do with you."

"I can't say I know what you mean," he said, taking the Potions textbook from her hands and moving to place it on its appropriate shelf.

"You have a bit of good in you, too, Tom. I'm going to teach you to utilise it, whether you like it or not."

As he walked back towards her, his gaze turned predatory. "I'd like to see you try to make me do something I'd rather not."

"It won't be very hard," she declared matter of factly, turning on her heel and marching out the library. Moments later, he surprised her by catching up. "You didn't have to tell Hagrid how to sneak into the kitchens, nor did you need to stop Fenella from hurting me."

"I'll have you know motivation was less than pure."

Laughing, she said, "Trust me, I know, but for now I'll take it."

Tom turned pensive. Never a good sign. "Very well."

Ophelia was forced to look at him to make sure she heard correctly. "Really? That easily?"

"You won't win, of course. If you are going to try and change me, it's only fair that I get to change you first. I'll teach you the benefits of ambition. I'll teach you that you'll get far further by throwing out your self-righteous rules and doing whatever needs to be done, for the ends always justify the means. And for your first lesson, I'll share a secret you would have never learned without using your Legilimency, something your virtuous standards seem to frown upon." He smiled, although without particular warmth. "Augusta Crouch was Imperiused."

 _ **A/N:**_

 _ **Okay. First of all: Augusta Crouch. I looked and looked for her actual maiden name with no luck, so I looked at the sacred twenty eight pureblood families, most of which are Slytherin. I can't imagine she came from Slytherin. That left Ollivander, Abbott, Weasley, Macmillan, ollivander, Fawley, shacklebolt, Crouch and Prewett. Considering neville had to recycle his dad's wand, I disqualified ollivander. Neville married an Abbott, so no there too. Weasley, shacklebolt, and prewett also seemed unlikely, as it likely would have come up somewhere if Neville were related to Ron or in a description. Now we have Fawley, Crouch and Macmillan. Already used fawley. I chose crouch, in the end, because her emotionally stunted, strict, sometimes borderline cruel behaviour seemed to align most with crouch, maybe Barty's cousin or something.**_


	9. IX

Tom had a problem. Several, actually, though one was arguably far more pressing than the others. That infernal basilisk was beginning to grow restless. Reckless was more like it. Several hundred years of sleep would do that to a massive serpent, evidently. He continually recoiled at Tom's attempts to rein him in, and was growing more brazen in leaving the Chamber to explore the castle through the pipes by the hour. Something had to give.

That was the larger issue, and by far more difficult to resolve. What was doable was to figure out the Imperius Curse business. Tom left Ophelia in the corridor, citing some assignment he'd forgotten- though he was sure she she hadn't believed him, but she seemed so lost in thought that she didn't argue the point.

He forced his features into an approximation of earnestness as he turned the corner to catch up with Augusta. "Crouch?"

She halted, just long enough for him to come astride, prompting curtly, "Yes?"

"You left before I could mention that Algie Longbottom came by the library in search of you only a few minutes before you yourself arrived." Ruffling his hair, he added, "I just thought would like to be aware."

She hissed out an irritated breath. "I swear, if I don't micromanage his every step he starts wandering around like a lost puppy." She darted a quick side glance at his face. "Thank you for telling me."

"Are you heading off to Hogsmeade?" he probed casually.

She shook her head. "Apparently not, if Algie and everyone already returned to look for me. At least I got to spend some time there, I guess."

"Buy anything in particular?" he asked, waving pleasantly at a group of Hufflepuff second years.

"I intended to buy a new set of quill's, but I don't think I got around to it." Wrinkling her nose, she sighed, "I must be going senile."

"I have a few spare, if you need them," Tom offered courteously. "How peculiar that you can't recall, though. What do you remember last?"

 _Or who_ , he really wanted to know.

"I think I walked out of the Three Broomsticks, and then-" She froze, eyes narrowing with barely contained suspicion and malice- "And I swear, if Algie spiked my butterbeer again and that's why I can't remember anything, he's not going to live to be old enough to Apparate far enough away so that he's safe from what I'll do to him."

Despite assuredly being raised on Occlumency, Tom discovered with some satisfaction that her mental shields were hardly uniform. They rose and fell randomly to the ebb and flow of her thoughts, waxing and waning like a tide. Sometimes there, sometimes not. It was painfully easy to rifle through her thoughts and images as they streamed through her mind. It quickly became evident, however, that Augusta saw absolutely nothing. Probably Imperiused from behind on her way out of the Three Broomsticks, because that's when her memory fogged, if he had to take a guess.

Business done, Tom wished her luck in finding her friends and parted ways at the next intersecting corridor. Later, he'd ask Avery or Knott if they noticed anything suspicious while they were there, though Tom was beginning to seriously doubt they would have. If Slughorn had indeed been getting a pint, as Ephiriam so plaintively mentioned before, anyone willing to use an Unforgivable Curse on a student right in front of a professor was not about to be caught by a couple of sixteen year olds.

Ophelia hadn't been the least surprised when he told her Augusta had been Imperiused, a fact that would have surprised him if associated with nearly anyone else.

One thing Tom knew for certain: not once did she ask _who_ sent the message, or who would Imperius a Hogwarts student to talk to her. She knew, and as the stakes increased, Tom was beginning to suspect he knew as well.

III

The day had started off promising, but, as promising things are oft to do, it fell apart swiftly and without much precipitance. In all honesty, when he first heard the words that altered the evening, Tom was taken over more with annoyance than concern.

Kill.

He resolved himself to storm into the chamber and threaten that arrogant serpent with having its scales repurposed into an expensive handbag if he didn't act with more attention to caution, midday or not. With most in Hogsmeade, the risk of entering the chamber was minimal and it was better to get the Basilisk straightened out sooner rather than later.

Kill, it hissed again through the walls, evident hunger lacing every letter.

That was another thing Tom had often brought up, simmering with irritation, and would indeed have to bring up again. It didn't matter how hungry the beast was, so long as he remained trapped within the walls. If he ever did kill something, it wasn't like he could actually eat it in the end. The act would merely expose them both needlessly. His basilisk did not much care for that argument, nor the reminder of its inability to roam free on the countryside, killing everything in sight at his leisure. At times like those, Tom reconsidered his most recent Hogwarts attending ancestor's wisdom at putting the serpent to sleep in the first place. Only his pride and determination to succeed where others had failed prevented him from doing the same. He was off to a much better start than his ancestors, at any rate. According to the basilisk's own- relatively proud- account, he'd tried to eat the last presumptuous "Heir of Slytherin" on the spot, as he'd done with all who'd come before him. To his grudging acknowledgement, Slytherin's descendants were not entirely without talent and were able to put him back to sleep with barely more than a spoken word.

Abruptly, the sound of sobs cut through the sound of his own footfalls, slowing his long, anger-fueled strides. Around the bend, Tom spotted a most befuddled looking Ophelia standing stiffly a few steps from a girl weeping on the ground. The obvious awkward panic accenting Ophelia's features, the likes of which he'd never seen on her before, gave him the strangest urge to laugh. He didn't, though. It would not due to be seen laughing before such an obviously distraught girl, like an obvious psychopath.

Ophelia's head jerked in his direction when she heard him approach. Her eyes screamed a silent, "Help me!" but he was almost inclined not to listen, solely for his own amusement. To see her squirm, at last so ruffled, was a rare sight. It surprised him. Of all things, dealing with a crying girl hardly seemed likely to be the thing to bring Ophelia to a full, agitated stop, when evidently she'd had a such a spotty past. She barely even flinched when being threatened with harm while being held down not a month prior

"What's the matter?" he asked, though he needn't have, for at that in that same breath he noticed the furry creature laying on its side before the girl. A cat.

Dead.

Kill.

It took no leap of imagination for him to put together what occurred.

"She's upset," Ophelia said, nearly as distressed as the girl in question, who he now identified as the muggleborn Ravenclaw Myrtle Warren.

"How very astute of you," he whispered back, giving her a flat look that plainly said, _You're not helpful_. Turning to Myrtle, he knelt beside her, saying softly, "Was that your cat?"

She nodded, letting out a wail with renewed vigour. Tom gently guided her hands away, and then looked pointedly between Ophelia and the feline until the former rushed forward to wrap the latter within her gold and crimson scarf. Tom, personally, would have simply summoned a sheet or towel, or perhaps even banished the body altogether, but there was nothing to be done about it at that point.

"I'm going to go find a professor," she managed, before rushing off.

"Do you know how it happened?" he said, directing the question at Myrtle.

"W-we were just walking and then- then I think she heard something, because she looked up. That's when- that's when-" her words grew incomprehensible as she threw her face into her her hands and wailed some more.

"Shhh," he soothed, the same way the matrons at the orphanage did when one of the younger ones injured themselves. It was ironic that he should be the one to console now when he had once so frequently been the reason for tears. There was no escaping it now, he supposed, after he'd already put himself forward for the job. It would raise far more eyebrows to leave her now than it would have been to never have involved himself in the first place. He couldn't quite remember why he'd ever volunteered in the first place, as there was no one but Ophelia to notice the kindness, and therefor no benefit to his reputation for the trouble, as Ophelia had long since seen through his motives.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, she returned to his side, followed, unfortunately, by none other than Albus Dumbledore. Of all the people in the castle, his keen mind was the one Tom wished furthest from the matter at hand. In an instant, Dumbledore drew Myrtle up by the hand until she swayed unsteadily on her feet.

"Would you care to tell me what happened from the beginning?"

She shook her head, still too overcome for words.

"She said she was walking down the corridor with her cat, when it dropped dead for no reason, sir," Tom supplied.

"It was NOT for no reason," she snarled, fixing him with a watery glare. "It was that Olive Hornby. She killed my baby! I'm sure of it!"

"Did you see her do it?" Dumbledore inquired reasonably, though not unkindly.

Myrtle was not in the mood for reason, it seemed. "I didn't need to! Who else would do this? That vile, evil-"

They were not to know exactly what Miss Hornby was, however, as Myrtle lapsed back into incomprehensible sobs.

Tom could hardly believe his good fortune. Myrtle unwittingly saved him a lot of trouble, since if enough doubt remained as to Olive's innocence, they would not look further into the incident.

"Are you well enough to get yourself to the hospital wing?" Dumbledore asked delicately. "Good. Ask the nurse for a nice pepper up potion and we'll discuss this again when you feel better."

He guided her forward several feet in the right direction, setting her on her way.

"Helena?" Moments later a beautiful, yet somber figure floated through the wall and stared at Dumbledore with haughty indifference, waiting. "Would you mind going with her to ensure she arrives in the hospital wing in one piece?"

Without a word or other visible form of acknowledgement, the Ravenclaw ghost trailed silently after Myrtle, careful to keep a slight distance.

Satisfied, Dumbledore turned his attention to Tom and Ophelia, his piercing gaze leaping from one to the other, as if trying to something together.

"Tom, you are dismissed. I recommend you take advantage of what remains of your Hogsmeade weekend. Ophelia, help me bring the cat to my office for further examination."

"Yes, sir," Tom acquiesced obediently, proceeding away from them a fair amount before promptly turning back to follow discretely when they'd turned the corner.

He need be no genius to know Dumbledore required no assistance transporting one small pet to his office.

In said office, Dumbledore examined the creature at length, while Ophelia watched in anticipation, finally saying, "You don't think a student did this either, do you, sir?"

"No, I don't," he agreed gravely. "I'd like to hear your reasoning for this conclusion, however. It's always beneficial to see through a different point set of eyes."

"She has no wounds, at least that I can tell, nor do I particularly think Olive Hornby in particular capable of brewing a potion quite so lethal with no outward side effects, at least on purpose. I've heard she's actually quite dreadful in the subject. Furthermore, the only curse I can think of that would leave no mark on its murdered victim, naturally, is the killing curse, but I've seen it enough that I'm confident Myrtle would have definitely noticed it being cast. Even if she somehow missed it, I doubt any student here possesses the hate and anger necessary to cast _Avada Kedavra_."

Despite being unable to see him through the slight crack of the ajar door, Tom imagined Dumbledore nodded. "Very astute. I am inclined to agree with you."

Ophelia's cheeks went a slight pink at his praise, which she attempted to hide by ducking her head. Her blonde her glistened almost white under the lantern light, only for Tom to realise with a start that that was not, in fact, a trick of the light at all. At least an inch of her roots that leached into the rest of her hair was a stark off-shade of white, like a shadow on snow.

"Professor," she hesitated, "I think- no, I know- that you-know-who Imperiused Augusta Crouch to get me a message while she was in Hogsmeade. He's growing more bold, and now he's targeting other students. She would have been safe if not for me. What if he's behind this, as well?"

"Overlooking our last conversation about the power of calling a person by their actual name," Dumbledore began evenly, "I do not believe it is so. This is not his, as they say, modus operandi. He has nothing to gain from needlessly harming animals, nor do I think it ever would be his intention to scare you by making the death a message. As convoluted and twisted as his reasons may be, he does not harm without them."

Ophelia cast her eyes away, only slightly mollified. "You're right. Of course, you're right."

"Now," Dumbledore's voice hardened a fraction, "What is this business about him Imperiusing one of my students?"

"He sent Augusta to tell me "I found it"." She turned back to him. "You don't think-"

"I do," Dumbledore said soberly. "We are of one mind on this matter. After decades of searching, he has finally found it."

She went pale. "And now, he's unstoppable."

"No one is unstoppable, my dear girl. Not even he."

Tom heard the bizarre hissing, clacking, and bubbling of Dumbledore's strange instruments fill the temporary silence. Ophelia squirmed under Dumbledore's piercing gaze, until an objectively hideous bird hopped down from its perch into her lap, croaking affectionately.

"Hello, Fawkes," she greeted, lifting the bird up in cupped hands. "You've looked better."

The phoenix chirped back in indignation, ruffling its undeveloped feathers.

"Don't speak to me in that tone," she scolded in a falsely serious voice. "We both know how pompous you get when your colours come in."

Fawkes jumped in place, it's wide eyes full of reproach. Grinning, Ophelia stood up and carefully laid him back where he belonged.

"If that's all, Professor, I'll be going."

"Nearly. One last thing." She paused behind her chair for him to continue. "I've noticed you've been spending increasing time with Tom Riddle."

A thrill shot through Tom at the mention of his name.

"Is that a question? Sir."

"Merely an observation." A pause. "I can't say I recommend you continue to pursue his acquaintance, but I acknowledge you can make your own decisions. All I'll say is to be wary around him. Surely, you of all people must see his resemblance to your uncle?"

"I know what I'm doing, Dumbledore," she replied coolly. "And he's nothing like my uncle, at least not yet. I'll choose my friends as I like without your consent, sir. Goodnight."

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Sooooo I've finally mapped everything out, at long last. So far I've been headed in a generic with a set endpoint, but now I have the exact details of each chapter, though I'm hoping to lower it to about 35 chapters, rather than the 42epilogue._**

 ** _I hope I've made it obvious enough as to what He found. If not then, oh well? I guess. It's hardly a life changing plot point._**

 ** _In other news, I was in Las Angeles last weekend on an undeserved vacation from school with a couple of friends and I ran into Conan O'Brien in little Tokyo. I'm not really a fan, but only in LA would you run into a minor celebrity while looking for a boba shop. Anyone else ever randomly meet a celeb?_**


	10. X

"I used to think I was good at ancient runes, but apparently I've been lying to myself. What does this even mean?" Rabastan complained, pushing away the text away in heartfelt disgust. "Who's even bothered about what the Ancients had to say anyway? Couldn't have been that important, because they are all dead."

"You must be the only idiot in this castle foolish enough to think Ancient Runes would be an easy O.W.L," Tom said in a bored voice, not sparing him a glance.

"Should have taken Muggle Studies with me." Avery shrugged from his highbacked lounge chair, where he conspicuously sat with not a single book, nary even a pamphlet. "Easiest class of my life. Doubt I've spent more than a total of nine minutes conscious in that classroom all year."

"It doesn't matter if you take the easiest class offered if you still fail all the others," Fenella muttered under her breath, though it lacked her old conviction. She'd grown subdued, Ophelia noticed, in the weeks following their scuffle, and Ophelia couldn't help the slight twinge of guilt she felt whenever she noticed.

When Rabastan began to bait Fenella into another argument, Tom pushed fluidly away from the table the three shared and moved to sit beside Ophelia on the couch.

"You've certainly made yourself comfortable," he noted, looking from her face to where her legs stretched along the soft, emerald upholstered cushions, leaving room for no others.

"Maybe I just like testing your patience,"she challenged, straight faced. "I want to see how irritating I have to get before you send me away and decide I'm not worth the trouble."

Tom, not at all impressed, ordered her to make room, to which she responded by turning back to studying her Ancient Runes textbook with far more success than Rabastan. At least, until she felt her lower half being lifted and looked back up to watch Tom slip onto the couch beneath the them.

"And you say I'm contrary," she sighed, turning a page.

Gradually, she felt a growing discomfort in the back of her head, until she finally gave in and turned a fraction to subtlety look behind her. Fenella, seemingly oblivious to whatever Rabastan was gesticulating across the table, stared blankly at the place where Ophelia's legs laid over Tom's. Realizing how it must look, Ophelia promptly jerked away, but luckily the abrupt movement was covered by Knott slamming the door open into the dungeon common room and swaggering in, a copy of the day's Prophet in hand.

Tom snapped his silver lined book closed with a sense of finality. "I pray, for your sake, there's a good excuse for this disturbance."

Leaping down the three steps at the entrance and falling onto the arm of Avery's armchair, he tossed the newspaper onto the low, dark coffee table between. It slid across its glossy surface, eventually landing on the ground where Ophelia had just planted her feet.

The headline made her blood run cold:

 ** _Grindelwald Strikes_**

The paper was in her hands without any conscious thought to make it so. She read

 _ **April 5, 1943**_

 **In the midst of the muggle war on the continent, Grindelwald has finally made his move. In a skirmish with Belgian aurors, he unleashed an explosive spell in conjunction with an unknown number of his followers** **17 aurors perished in the attack, as well 11 other ministry officials and 9o8 muggle civilians including 209 children known to be present in the town of Mortsel, Belgium at the time**

 ** _Obliviators from nearby countries are working round the clock to preserve the_** **_Statute of Secrecy by altering the memories of survivors. The official story: A failed Ally bombing on a munitions factory_**.

Ophelia couldn't bring herself to read any further. What did that make? 936 deaths total? 936 murders?

Something between guilt and undiluted horror squeezed at her stomach, no matter how she tried to digest the feeling. The more she worked to force air down her throat the harder it became, until her head began to swim, as the expression goes, though it seemed more like drowning. Her lungs felt both too full and too empty at the same time, her skin too hot, her thoughts too heavy.

Was it only a few days before where she and Dumbledore so confidently declared Grindelwald didn't harm without reason? What possible reason did he have for this most recent atrocity?

"Excuse me," she managed, climbing heavily to her feet. There was a dull thud of her textbook colliding with the ground, and then she was out the door.

The Slytherin Common Room being in the dungeons had never much bothered her before, but the dimly lit corridors and warmth smothering walls that seemed to press in at every angle stole the last remaining breath from her lungs. When she reached the end of one corridor, she merely pushed back against the wall and ran a different way without rhyme or reason.

I _need out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out! OUT_!

Then, out of nowhere, a large figure stepped backwards from an empty classroom and, too late to slow down or to avoid him, she crashed face first.

It was like running headlong into a brick wall. Big hands reached forward to stabalize her, not at all taken aback by the collision.

"Alrigh' there?" Rubeus asked, cocking his head to the side. "Yeh don' look so good."

Ophelia blinked away her momentary confusion. "If I look as good as I feel, I must be quite a sorry sight indeed."

His eyes lit up with mischief. "I got jus' the thing. You'll love 'im."

His massive hand engulfing most of her forearm, he pulled her back into the room he'd just exited.

"Him?" she asked distractedly, despite everything she'd only just learn. Rubeus had such a disarming quality, it was hard not to humour him.

"Come on," he cooed. "Come on out, Aragog."

First, there was one horribly hairy leg poking out of the box on the shelf. Then, if that weren't bad enough, there were eight. The creature, an altogether monstrous black spider with too many eerily intelligent eyes, scuttled up Hagrid's arm until it rested comfortably on his shoulder.

It clicked his disconcerting pincers together beside Hagrid's ear and Ophelia got the uncomforting impression that it was whispering to him.

"No!" Rubeus scolded the arachnid, confirming her theory. She'd never less liked being right in her life. "You can't eat her, either. Aragog, we've been over this. She's our friend."

Aragog gave her a look with his many eyes that left serious doubt as to whether he shared Hagrid's feelings on the matter.

"Rubeus... what is that?" she asked tentatively.

"This," he indicated the spider, "is Aragog. An acromantula. Hatched him from a little egg. Wouldn' believe the trouble I wen' through ter get him, too."

"I think I can," she said dryly, not taking her eyes from the spider. "Hello, Aragog."

It clicked its pincers. " _Hello, Hagrid's friend_

Hagrid beamed.

"I don't suppose the professors knows he's here?"

"They wouldn' understand." Hagrid waived a hand evasively. "He's harmless, like a puppy."

"No offense to... er... Aragog," she sent the acromantula and apologetic look, "but why couldn't you settle for a puppy instead? L I hear nice things."

"They don' like me much. Reckon they're afraid. Besides, isn't Aragog so much more interesting?"

"Interesting. Terrifying. What's the difference?" she laughed weakly.

"Don't yer like him?" he asked self consciously.

Kicking herself in the foot, she lied through her teeth. "Of course, he's wonderful. Who wants a nice, fluffy kitten when you can have a nice," she almost choked on the word, "fluffy spider. The more legs the merrier."

"He's not jus' cute. In a few years, he'll be big as a house, with enough venom ter kill an entire army."

Ophelia felt the room begin to sway.

III

Tom's fingers curled around the discarded Prophet, even as his eyes still stared at the door through which Ophelia had fled.

 _ **Grindelwald Strikes**_!

Again and again and again and again. It always led back to this one point: Grindelwald.

He quickly burned through the article, before tossing it away.

"She forgot her book," he told no one in particular. None of the others seemed preoccupied by her reaction and subsequent exit, at any rate. "I should return it before she has class."

As he picked up his newfound excuse, though he didn't see it as such, he nearly didn't notice the slip of parchment sticking out the pages at an odd angle. He froze, realising it wasn't merely a sheet of paper, but an entire envelope. One of the mysterious letters.

Months prior, he wouldn't have hesitated to tear it open, even for a second. His tracks could be easily concealed after the fact through the use of a simple repairing charm, a technique even the most incompetent of first years couldn't help but accidentally learn in their early months. Ophelia would be none the wiser.

And yet.

And yet, the thought gave him pause. Not enough, apparently, because he still opened it, of course. There was really no way he was going to let that opportunity slip through his fingers. That's what he'd been working for all these months, why he'd ever bothered himself with her acquaintance in the first place. The mystique made her interesting for a time, but now he could finally be rid of her once and for all.

He ignored the unfamiliar stirring in his chest, the ill feelings that last realisation bred, and read.

 _ **At this point, I hold little hope the contents of this letter will be graced enough to ever reach your eyes, yet I will try again now, and I will try again when this fails.**_

 _ **Come home.**_

 _ **There is no safer place for you but by my side. Who knows what the ministries of the world would do to you if knew who they had within their grasp. They paint themselves as great defenders of their so-called justice, despite the evils they would inflict on you if they thought it might bring me to my knees. It would, my dear niece. Nothing else can can stop me, but you. It is only Albus' softness that prevents such a thing, but we both know that cannot last. He has proved himself incapable of protecting anything of importance, and too much a coward to fight alongside us for the Greater Good.**_

 _ **Just return home. The next great adventure I embark upon I will not be able to convey in another simple letter that I know you won't read.**_

 _ **I hope you may yet prove me wrong.**_

Unaddressed and unsigned, intended to be untraced should it find its way into the wrong hands. That thought came not without a small sense of irony, as Tom realized that his were the wrong hands in question.

Almost without his consent, his feet traced her steps out of his common room, the letter clutched loosely between his fingers. He sought the sound of her voice in those dark tunnels beneath the school to guide his way, the same way an old ship sought a lighthouse in the night. When the voices grew soft, he was forced to resort to other means

 _Serpensortia_." Three snakes- one a venomous green, one a deadly black, and the last many shades of brown with a rattle at its end- sprouted forth from his wand and immediately began to disperse every which way. "Stop," he hissed. They did, turning their pitiless faces back to him. " _Find the girl and report back to me. Do no injury. Do not be spotted."_

With hisses of affirmation, they set off, far more complaint than their king in the pipes beneath them all. The mamba returned first a few minutes later, blending into the dark shadows of the corridor. Tom tracked it by the torch-fire glinting off it's cold eyes.

" _Show me the way_."

The others reappeared soon after, which he promptly dispelled, keeping the mamba as his guide only till he was close enough to make out Ophelia's individual words.

He half expected her to be in tears, so the rational tone surprised him, as well as the one speaking back.

"...enough venom ter kill an entire army," Hagrid exclaimed proudly.

"That's really fantastic," Ophelia responded, with almost enough enthusiasm to sound convincing, but to Tom the strain was evident. "And you're positive he's not going to eat me in my sleep?"

"O' course not!"

When Tom pushed into the room, he instantly knew why Ophelia sounded as though her blood pressure had reached dangerous levels, and the cause had a disconcerting number of legs.

"What about him?" the spider asked, his pincers clacking together a note impatiently.

"We been over this. There's no eatin' anyone."

Tom couldn't help but wonder what alternate universe he'd just walked in on. "What's the meaning of this?"

Ophelia opened her mouth to speak, and then saw the letter in his hand. She shut it slowly.

"Well?" he prompted again.

"I think," she bit her lip, "we need to talk. I think we need to talk about this again soon, Rubeus. Aragog... don't do anything I wouldn't do."

With an apprehensive parting glance at the spider and a fleeting smile for Hagrid, she pulled Tom out the room after her and into an adjacent classroom. She leaned heavily against the closed door, loosing an exhausted sigh.

"I'd appreciate it if you kept that interaction between us," she said at length, rubbing her temples.

"The spider?"

"Acromantula," she corrected distractedly. "He's an acromantula. Apparently he wouldn't hurt a fly."

His lips twitched in amusement. "A spider who wouldn't hurt a fly?"

"It's just an expression, you pompous..." She spared another glance at the envelope and deflated. "Never mind. Just come out with it. You read it, right?"

"I expected you to be angrier, possibly curse me into a wall, like you did to someone else we know."

"Please," she groaned, sliding down the side of the door until she met the ground. "Please don't bring up my greatest hits right now. I have enough on my mind."

"How about this?" Tom knelt down before her, so that they were at eye level. "You tell me the truth about who you really are, and I'll keep Rubeus' spider problem to myself."

"Don't act like you don't know, Tom," she said, smiling coldly. "I'm not dumb enough to believe it, and you're not dumb enough to not have pieced it all together by now. Why else would I have avoided you for so long? I knew you were smart enough to figure it out."

"I would like you to tell me yourself," he whispered, seeking out her eyes with his.

Her nails dug into her palms as she worked to not avert her gaze. "Don't make me say it. Not when you already know."

With painful slowness, he nodded once. "Very well. You're on the run from Grindelwald."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Fun fact: that thing in the paper that I blamed on the allies in word war II was actually a real event (minus the wizard part of course). It was the largest loss of civilian life in a single attack during the whole war. The allies actually aimed for a munitions factory, but someone done goofed, so they killed almost a thousand civilians. I would say yikes, but hat seems a bit like an understatement.**_

 _ **Maybe the next chapter will come out soon, maybe not. It was one of the first I started writing for this story, so it's partially done and I already know what I'm going to put, but I kinda-sorta have an essay on how Locke's civil society failed in Voltaire's Candide that I've been procrastinating on. How can I write an entire chapter for this, but I can't string three words together for that? I'm a mess, amigos.**_

 _ **Edit: Aaaaaaaaaahhh thanks for the serpensortia catch. I haven't read the books in many moons and got them mixed up**_


	11. XI

"You make it sound so much less complicated than it actually is," Ophelia said, brushing a lock of hair out of her face.

"Then why don't you tell me?" Tom suggested reasonably. "I have time."

"I don't know. I don't- I don't _talk_ about my problems. My tried and true method so far has been to pretend they don't exist and hope they go away without my intervention."

"How's that been working out?"

"Perfectly well, thank you very much," she replied stubbornly. Her defiance crumbled, however, the longer he stared silently, waiting. "Fine. You really want to know? Let me start from the beginning so you can understand. Make yourself comfortable, because this is a insufferably long story and I'm not allowing you to escape until I'm done. Remember, you asked for it."

Obediently, he fell out of his crouch and onto his rear in front of her, twirling his hand with a flourish, indicating she should proceed. The action somehow seemed so beneath him, yet captured his pretentiousness so completely that she couldn't help the smile the pulled at the corner of her lips.

"I already told you how my mother abandoned me because of my magic. I mentioned that a few months ago. My father, my _muggle_ father, died before then, from complications due to the Great War." Ophelia's eyes took on a far off quality. "I don't really know why for sure, but mum hated magic, or maybe it was just my magic. I don't think she ever loved me, from the second the midwife put me in her arms and she saw my discoloured eyes and shock of white hair. It was obvious I had magic, even then. How could I not, looking like that? She hated looking at me day after day and having to be reminded of the brother she despised. As if I had any control over my appearance." Ophelia shook her head, smiling bitterly. "I don't know why she hated to see him so much. I was too young to ask... maybe for the same reasons I hate to be reminded of him when I look in the mirror, too."

"On the contrary, You have nothing to be ashamed of," Tom interrupted, tilting her face so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "I admire your eyes. Something about them speaks of power, like they are made from the very essence of magic itself."

That was possibly the opposite of what Ophelia wanted to hear, but she didn't say as much. He was trying, in his own way.

Pulling herself from his grip and crossing her arms, she continued. "Not long after that, my uncle took me in. He must have had one of his peons keeping tabs on us for quite some time in order for him to show up so soon after she left. Not even a week later. Maybe a few days at most. At first, I refused to go with him, so sure my mum was coming back for me. She never did, and my uncle put aside everything, even his hunting and his quest to gain dominion of wizards over other creatures, to stay with me until I was ready to go with him. When he appeared, looking so much like me and offering love and family... he was like a classic hero from myth. I idolised him. For a kid who'd been treated with such indifference by my mother my whole life, I adored him more than words can say. Maybe he is a monster to the world, but he's always been like a father to me. If he thought I was cold, he would have set the world on fire to warm me up again. It's hard to distinguish the man I know, to the person I know him to be. He even taught me how to control my magic that my mother had tried so hard to suppress."

"And how to protect your thoughts" Tom added.

Ophelia nodded absently. "It wouldn't have been safe for me or any of us around my uncle if his enemies could sneak into my mind. I made us vulnerable. Some even went so far as to say that my existence was my uncle's _only_ weakness, although they'd be wrong about that."

"What's his weakness, then, if not you?"

"You disappoint me, Tom," she jested weakly. "Is it not obvious?"

His expression cleared. "You allude to Dumbledore."

A nod. "Naturally."

"And what has he done to earn your high esteem?" Tom demanded, irate. "He is just an old fool!"

"Professor Dumbledore gave me what no other ever could," Ophelia said sharply. "He found me at my lowest and gave me a way out. You can't understand what it was like, being raised as I was! I knew every Unforgivable Curse before most young wizards even touched their first wand! I'd seen the most horrible things, done the most horrible things, and wanted to do even worse... I couldn't take it. I loved my uncle so, so much, but I grew disillusioned from his vision. I couldn't follow him any longer, or else I'd go mad with guilt at the things I'd been a part of, the things I myself had done, yet I was too much a coward to stop him myself. I-I could have walked right into his room as he slept and killed him painlessly. His revolution would have come to a crushing end then and there, with no further loss of life. Nine hundred innocent muggles, unaware of the war they'd unwittingly stumbled into, would still be alive, not to mention the countless witches and wizards who've opposed him. I could have ended it! I should have!"

Elbows on her knees, Ophelia maintained a punishing grip on her scalp, ducking her head and winding her fingers through her hair.

Gingerly, Tom untangled her hands, taking care to not pull upon any strands of her hair, though he had the sick intuition that she would have welcomed the pain as a well-deserved punishment.

"Maybe I have not learned much from our extended acquaintance, but I know this: you are no killer," he said. "You refuse to raise a hand against even those in this castle who would do you bodily harm. You could not have murdered Grindelwald unawares, and therefor shouldn't hold onto such foolish guilt."

"You know absolutely _nothing_ about me!" she snapped, voice cracking on the last word, and ripped her arms away with so much force that the door rattled. "I _am_ a murderer!. I have killed before and I should have been able to do it again." Tom was too late in disguising his shock, causing her to comment, "You saw only what I wanted to to see, but that person- that girl- isn't me. I've hurt people, I've-"

"Tell me more about him," Tom interrupted calmly, seeing through her attempts to get a rise out of him. She wanted a fight, but he was not going to give her one. Not yet.

She swallowed down her rising agitation and took two large breaths of air that weren't very effective.

I will not cry, she thought. I don't cry, not ever, and I won't start today.

"Who? The man I killed or my uncle?"

"Whichever you like."

Ophelia fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. "I was twelve when he died. I thought, well, I was an idiot, but I thought he was my friend. He was in my uncle's inner circle, had been since before I went into Gellert's custody." She shook her head, as if brushing off everything she'd said. "No, I started in the wrong place, I think. Let me begin again. My uncle occasionally took me on his less risky "adventures," as he called them. He was more than confident that if he was around that I'd be safe. He was right, of course. Even back then, he was virtually untouchable." She closed her eyes, tilting her head up and spoke to the ceiling. "Except to traitors. We got set up, ambushed in some backwards village in Austria while searching for- well, that doesn't matter. What matters was that we were betrayed, and while my uncle tried to fend of the Aurors, the traitor, someone we all trusted implicitly, moved to curse him in the back. No one else saw, all too distracted with the dangers at our outskirts to realise the danger from within. When I saw what he was about to do, I raised my wand and I- I-" her eyes snapped open and she tonelessly finished, "I killed him."

"I see."

Her head rolled against the door until she was looking at him. "Is that it? No condolences? No horrified proclamations?"

"Is that what you want?" he asked, meeting her gaze with unwavering focus.

Though nothing about the situation was at all funny, she smiled. "You can drop the people pleasing act. We both know there's no sincerity behind it."

"As you wish," he said magnanimously, bordering on impertinence. "Continue."

"When I killed him, that's when it all became real. Before, it had seemed like some grand game where my only goal was to please my uncle. He was most certainly pleased that I killed Julius- I mean, the traitor. I wasn't though. I had to confront what I'd done. Everyone said I did the right thing, they told me if I hadn't killed him he would have killed my uncle. That much is true, but Julius had been my _friend_! He was possibly the smartest, most knowledgable person I've ever met. He could name every star in the sky and give a step by step accounts of the goblin rebellions in excruciating detail. If I threw a dart at a map, he would tell me how the muggle geopolitical climate in that country influenced wizarding history dating back up to a few hundred years." Ophelia curled in on herself, resting her forehead on her knees. She repeated softly. "He'd been my friend and I murdered him. It got me thinking: _why_? Why would he betray us? I hated him for putting me in that position, and eventually I began thinking more critically about what it was we were doing. I'd be expected to hurt people again if I stuck around, so a week later I ran away. I managed to avoid everyone my uncle sent after me, even my uncle himself. I'd learned from the best how to move without being noticed, and it's much easier to hide than it is to seek. Eventually, lesser spies for the various ministries reported my absence, no matter how my uncle tried to hide it, and they began their search for me, too. I made for perfect blackmail in their eyes, I imagine. In the end, neither party found me. Dumbledore caught up to me first, some time into my second month on my own. I'd been hiding out in Andorra nearly getting captured in Switzerland, although I splinched myself something fierce in my hurry to get away. He offered me a place at the school where he taught other witches and wizards like me. As polite as he was, I didn't trust him one bit, partially out of angst at being finally caught and partially because my uncle poisoned my opinion of the great Albus Dumbledore. At that point, I wouldn't have trusted Merlin himself. Pretty lies always tasted bitter in the end, and that's what I thought Dumbledore offered. But I was bleeding and cold and so afraid. I think I passed out before I gave him an answer, because the next thing I knew I was in the Hogwarts infirmary."

"Doesn't sound like he gave you much of a choice," Tom commented.

She shook her head. "He did. He said he wouldn't force my hand, that I could leave whenever I pleased, but that he hoped I would choose to stay. Without any other options anyway, outside of returning to my uncle, I gave it a shot. I was given a new name and deposited into Gryffindor, where Dumbledore could keep the closest eye on me."

"A new name," Tom said, like an accusation. "I suppose that's why I could never find information on any Ophelia Ashwood's?"

She purses her lips. "Irredeemably nosy people like you are the exact reason I need an assumed name, Tom."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I make no apologies."

"Nothing would surprise me more than if you did."

"You have absolutely no intention of telling me your true name," he finished. Not a question.

"Caught on, have you?" she needled.

"Need I ask why?"

"Because it's really none of your business, is it? I chose my new name all by my lonesome, thank-you-very-much, and I'm quite content with it. My mother didn't give me anything in life except for a name, and now she can't claim to have even done that much, and that's exactly how I like it," Ophelia glowered.

"I'm certain I could find out with ease, now that I know everything else," Tom pointed out.

"You go ahead and do just that, but you won't hear the words from me," she said, jaw set.

Tom shook his head, more out of amused acceptance than true disagreement with her decision. "As you will it."

She frowned, studying his face. At last, she sighed, "You're definitely still going to look into it. For someone as private as you, you really don't have any qualms about invading other's privacy." Her cheek twitched as she pulled herself heavily to her feet, like she was trying for a smile, but just couldn't remember how to properly mover her lips. "That's enough self pity for one century, don't you think? I much prefer swallowing all my resentment down under the assumption that I'll die before it can fester too much."

"Where do you think you're off to?" Tom asked, tracking her movements towards the door with predatory watchfulness.

Her hand paused on the knob. "You don't actually expect me to stay? My uncle- Grindelwald- he's known where I've been for a few years, but now he's growing more bold. Who knows what he'll try next? No one would be able to stop him anymore if he chose to break into Hogwarts to fetch me. My best bet is to find someplace else to hide. I'm not twelve anymore, Tom. I can do it this time... That is," Ophelia scrutinised him with utmost suspicion, "if you don't tattle on me to the ministry. After all these years, I'm labouring under the hope that they've they've mostly forgotten I exist."

She didn't think he would go to the ministry, but Tom proved himself unpredictable at the best of times.

"I have better things to do than talk to Aurors," he snapped, an ugly look crossing his normally handsome face. "But if you think you'll be fine on your own, you're a fool. I imagine you'll be back under Grindelwald's care before the month is out, and this time you won't have opportunity to run away again."

"Did your miss the part where I mentioned that I managed to make a fool out of several ministries, all of my uncle's devoted followers, and even Dumbledore for two months when I was practically an infant?" she retorted exaggeratively. "I'd have liked to see you do better at that age!"

Tom, choosing to find humour in her indigence, merely commented, "You were hardly a baby, but yes, I assure you, I could have done better at half your age."

Tom noted with satisfaction the way her eyes flashed. Now, she could have her fight. Some people needed pity to feel better, but Tom knew Ophelia was the type who needed an argument to drive her forward. She may have believed herself cunning enough to see right through him, but that didn't make her capable to avoid his manipulations.

She surprised him by bringing her voice down low and turning away. "You're right, though not in the way you might think. If I'm caught, I'm never leaving again, not because I won't be able to escape, but because I won't want to. I'll never be able to bring myself to run away again. It would hurt us both far too much. He'll never stop trying to bring together our broke semblance of a family, and I'll never stop running away from him out of guilt and shame of the fact that nothing would make me happier than to join him again."

"I'll make sure he never gets ahold of you." Tom's jaw set, as he pushed the door closed from behind her, preventing her exit. "I'll kill him if I have to. You'll be far safer from his influence by my side. Stay. I do not fear Grindelwald."

For once, Ophelia didn't doubt the truth in his words, despite not being able to see his face. She just knew. He would kill Grindelwald to keep them apart, or at least try to. He would make sure her resolve to stay away never wavered, and stop her if it did. Somehow, despite how warped their relationship was, of both obviously constantly trying to manipulate and lie to the other, they'd formed something as precious and fragile as a true friendship. An accident, for sure, yet also a first for both, and neither was willing to let it go just yet.

"Okay. For now, I'll stay."

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Yikes and Double Yikes. That was tough to write, so I hope it wasn't hella confusing. Backstory over though, so yay!_**

 ** _I started thinking about this when I recently went through a 1975 binge, but I decided, in the context of this book, if I had to choose one song to describe Tom it would be "Inside Your Mind" by the 1975. Something about it just gives me chills. Haven't decided on a song for Ophelia yet though... Any suggestions? What do you all listen to? I'm constantly struggling to find new music, so any suggestions are a favour haha. Comment your thoughts on the chapter!_**


	12. XII

Tom hadn't lied: he wasn't afraid of Grindelwald, but that did not by any means means mean he was reckless enough to potentially run into the wizard unprepared. No, if they met, Tom would need to have safe guards in place. As confident in his abilities as he was, he was too smart to believe he actually stood a chance against such a dark wizard with decades more experience. To complicate matters, Grindelwald practically made a profession of outduelling and outwitting Aurors, so Tom had to think of something else. Something they wouldn't dare dream of.

He loosed an almost imperceptible sigh. There were important things to be done, yet there he was, sitting through possibly his thousandth Charms lecture. It was hardly his fault it drove him to distraction; he'd learned everything he'd ever need to know on the subject by his third year. Who cared if he could make baubles blossom from nothing or a gentle stream erupt from his wand? Sometimes, he wished he could go back to the days when every aspect of every class had seemed so new and exciting.

But he couldn't, so he settled on half-listening to their lecture on the Homonculous Charm, while putting on an award worthy performance of feigning disinterest in Rabastan's crusade to balance as many torn pages from their textbook atop the professor's hat without her realizing. The trickiest part was managing to fly the parchment by the old bird without her noticing, rather than the actual balance portion. Twenty-two minutes later, the stack came crashing down, theoretically because the point of her hat couldn't take the weight of half a textbook worth of paper, earning Rabastan a week's worth of detention. He didn't actually get caught, per say, but Professor Darrow took one look at his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and decided to forgo any trials regarding his innocence.

Tom spent the rest of the period pretending to study his Charms text, which was, in fact, a book he'd stolen from the restricted section and rebound to look like the proper school required book, until, five minutes before they were to leave, a bizarre noise broke the monotony of Professor Darrow's drone.

A shout.

"Stay in your seats!" she commanded hastily, making towards the door.

No one listened. Tom, quick on the uptake, was out into the corridor before many had so much as risen from their seats.

"Someone get a professor!" Ephiriam Longbottom called frantically from around the corner.

Within seconds, Tom had followed his voice to the source and found Ephiriam crouched in his hands and knees over the body of a seventh year boy. At first glance, the boy appeared to be dead, except his eyes were wide, his face frozen in a mask of surprise.

"What's wrong with him?" Tom asked, leaning in and bringing a hand to the boy's cheek. Completely rigid.

"I don't know- We were just looking out the window talking about the weather from the quidditch match tomorrow, when he froze and I bumped into him," Ephiriam explained in a rush. "Did you call for a professor?"

"No. Everyone within three floors must have heard you."

True to form, they were soon converged upon by dozens of curious students. Professor Darrow tried to fight her way through the barricade with little success.

"Out of my way! What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, still confined to the outskirts in part due to her short stature and feeble makeup.

"Woah, is he dead?" a audacious Hufflepuff girl asked, nudging him with her shoe. "He looks pretty deceased."

"I don't think he'll be playing in the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game this Friday, at any rate," another contributed.

"He's not dead," Tom cut in, brows furrowed.

"Bummer," Rabastan said. "He's a actually pretty good beater. It would be nice to thin down the competition."

"Give us space," Tom ordered coolly, pretending not to hear.

As if he'd shouted, as if he was the sole voice of authority in the corridor instead of the professor they were all studiously ignoring, they backed away. Professor Darrow rushed forward.

"You! Boy!" She rounded on gerbil-faced third year. "Fetch the Headmaster immediately! Professor Dumbledore, too! The rest of you, back to class!"

As the retinue grudgingly disbanded, Tom lagged behind.

"Is there anything more you need, Professor?" he asked, morphing his expression into one of concern. "Should I help you move him to the hospital wing?"

She spared Tom a single glance, earned solely out of the heartfelt affection she felt for the poor orphan that Tom had been sure to nurture those past several years. "No. This is dark, dark magic, Tom, though I can't draw any conclusion about what's done it. It's best not to move him until Albus arrives- oh, speak of the devil."

Dumbledore's robes flowed behind him as he rushed forward at a pace too harried to ever be mistaken for casual, the Headmaster at his heels.

"Let me see him," was all he said before bending low enough for his beard to graze the floor and muttering a long sequence of spells that seemingly had no effect.

"Well, Albus?" Armando Dippet asked tensely.

"It seems... that the boy has been petrified," Dumbledore revealed, his eyes flashing for a fraction of a second to absorb Tom.

"And?" Dippet pressed. "What can be done? Surely there's a cure? Who is behind this?"

"Alas, Headmaster, the answers to those questions are beyond even my knowledge. For now, we should remove him to the hospital wing where the nurse can observe him. She'll know better than I what can be done."

Dippet ran his fingers restlessly along his wand. "Yes, yes. Quite right, as always. Someone will have to tell the boy's parents. And I shudder to think what the school governors will have to say about this... that is a dozen letters I don't look forward to writing."

"I think the student's safety is slightly more important, Headmaster," Dumbledore said unaccusingly, conjuring up a stretcher wordlessly. "You'll need to write plenty more of those if this doesn't stop. I fear this may be related to the mysterious animal deaths around the castle. We're only lucky this time that the victim was only petrified. I can guarantee that would the worst letter of all."

"It will stop," Dippet replied adamantly. "It must. I'm sure this will all turn out to be some sort of accident. What could possibly be predating on students within castle walls?"

He laughed nervously, but Dumbledore only shook his head.

"I wish I shared your optimism, Headmaster."

"It was Slytherin!" Ephiriam blurted, then, realizing what he'd said, went a brilliant shade of magenta.

"I can assure you that it was not one of us," Tom intervened smoothly, giving Ephiriam a narrow-eyed look. He'd never fallen into House animosity before.

"Tom's right," Dippet agreed, brushing the prefect aside. "You can't go around accusing people without merit."

"He is our only witness, Headmaster." Dumbledore turned his piercing eyes on Ephiriam. "Please explain."

He loosed an almost imperceptible sigh. There were important things to be done, yet there he was, sitting through possibly his thousandth Charms lecture. It was hardly his fault it drove him to distraction; he'd learned everything he'd ever need to know on the subject by his third year. Who cared if he could make baubles blossom from nothing or a gentle stream erupt from his wand? Sometimes, he wished he could go back to the days when every aspect of every class had seemed so new and exciting.

But he couldn't, so he settled on half-listening to their lecture on the Homonculous Charm, while putting on an award worthy performance of feigning disinterest in Rabastan's crusade to balance as many torn pages from their textbook atop the professor's hat without her realizing. The trickiest part was managing to fly the parchment by the old bird without her noticing, rather than the actual balance portion. Twenty-two minutes later, the stack came crashing down, theoretically because the point of her hat couldn't take the weight of half a textbook worth of paper, earning Rabastan a week's worth of detention. He didn't actually get caught, per say, but Professor Darrow took one look at his cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and decided to forgo any trials regarding his innocence.

Tom spent the rest of the period pretending to study his Charms text, which was, in fact, a book he'd stolen from the restricted section and rebound to look like the proper school required book, until, five minutes before they were to leave, a bizarre noise broke the monotony of Professor Darrow's drone.

A shout.

"Stay in your seats!" she commanded hastily, making towards the door.

No one listened. Tom, quick on the uptake, was out into the corridor before many had so much as risen from their seats.

"Someone get a professor!" Ephiriam Longbottom called frantically from around the corner.

Within seconds, Tom had followed his voice to the source and found Ephiriam crouched in his hands and knees over the body of a seventh year boy. At first glance, the boy appeared to be dead, except his eyes were wide, his face frozen in a mask of surprise.

"What's wrong with him?" Tom asked, leaning in and bringing a hand to the boy's cheek. Completely rigid.

"I don't know- We were just looking out the window talking about the weather from the quidditch match tomorrow, when he froze and I bumped into him," Ephiriam explained in a rush. "Did you call for a professor?"

"No. Everyone within three floors must have heard you."

True to form, they were soon converged upon by dozens of curious students. Professor Darrow tried to fight her way through the barricade with little success.

"Out of my way! What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, still confined to the outskirts in part due to her short stature and feeble makeup.

"Woah, is he dead?" a audacious Hufflepuff girl asked, nudging him with her shoe. "He looks pretty deceased."

"I don't think he'll be playing in the Ravenclaw-Slytherin game this Friday, at any rate," another contributed.

"He's not dead," Tom cut in, brows furrowed.

"Bummer," Rabastan said. "He's a actually pretty good beater. It would be nice to thin down the competition."

"Give us space," Tom ordered coolly, pretending not to hear.

As if he'd shouted, as if he was the sole voice of authority in the corridor instead of the professor they were all studiously ignoring, they backed away. Professor Darrow rushed forward.

"You! Boy!" She rounded on gerbil-faced third year. "Fetch the Headmaster immediately! Professor Dumbledore, too! The rest of you, back to class!"

As the retinue grudgingly disbanded, Tom lagged behind.

"Is there anything more you need, Professor?" he asked, morphing his expression into one of concern. "Should I help you move him to the hospital wing?"

She spared Tom a single glance, earned solely out of the heartfelt affection she felt for the poor orphan that Tom had been sure to nurture those past several years. "No. This is dark, dark magic, Tom, though I can't draw any conclusion about what's done it. It's best not to move him until Albus arrives- oh, speak of the devil."

Dumbledore's robes flowed behind him as he rushed forward at a pace too harried to ever be mistaken for casual, the Headmaster at his heels.

"Let me see him," was all he said before bending low enough for his beard to graze the floor and muttering a long sequence of spells that seemingly had no effect.

"Well, Albus?" Armando Dippet asked tensely.

"It seems... that the boy has been petrified," Dumbledore revealed, his eyes flashing for a fraction of a second to absorb Tom.

"And?" Dippet pressed. "What can be done? Surely there's a cure? Who is behind this?"

"Alas, Headmaster, the answers to those questions are beyond even my knowledge. For now, we should remove him to the hospital wing where the nurse can observe him. She'll know better than I what can be done."

Dippet ran his fingers restlessly along his wand. "Yes, yes. Quite right, as always. Someone will have to tell the boy's parents. And I shudder to think what the school governors will have to say about this... that is a dozen letters I don't look forward to writing."

"I think the student's safety is slightly more important, Headmaster," Dumbledore said unaccusingly, conjuring up a stretcher wordlessly. "You'll need to write plenty more of those if this doesn't stop. I fear this may be related to the mysterious animal deaths around the castle. We're only lucky this time that the victim was only petrified. I can guarantee that would the worst letter of all."

"It will stop," Dippet replied adamantly. "It must. I'm sure this will all turn out to be some sort of accident. What could possibly be predating on students within castle walls?"

He laughed nervously, but Dumbledore only shook his head.

"I wish I shared your optimism, Headmaster."

"It was Slytherin!" Ephiriam blurted, then, realizing what he'd said, went a brilliant shade of magenta.

"I can assure you that it was not one of us," Tom intervened smoothly, giving Ephiriam a narrow-eyed look. He'd never fallen into House animosity before.

"Tom's right," Dippet agreed, brushing the prefect aside. "You can't go around accusing people without merit."

"He is our only witness, Headmaster." Dumbledore turned his piercing eyes on Ephiriam. "Please explain."

Still looking like he'd suffered a rather severe sunburn, Ephiriam said, "I'm sorry, Tom. That's not what I meant. I just- well, some of the older students have been telling stories to frighten the younger ones, and it got carried away after people's pets started dying without signs of injury." He seemed to wither further with each successive word, as if realizing only now how ridiculous he sounded, yet resolved to push forward until the end. "And some students believe- not necessarily me- that the attacks may be coming from the... the Slytherin monster."

Though last words came free with a grimace, doubtlessly feeling the flaws in his accusation, they struck Tom differently. The animal attacks he had little doubt were connected to the serpent, and the fact that rumours were spiraling was no trifling matter, but it couldn't have had anything to do with this attack could it? Basilisk's were known for their lethality; he'd never heard of one petrifying someone before. Was it even possible?

He wasn't sure. Even if it was unheard of, how many other lethal creatures capable of such a thing lived within the castle walls? For once, he agreed with Dumbledore in that a student wasn't capable of such a thing, especially when they would have instantly been noticed by Ephiriam.

Armando Dippet spared Ephiriam a strained smile. "Those are just stories with no foundation in fact. Now, do your best to not to spread hysteria until we've gotten to the bottom of this."

After lifting the seventh year onto the stretcher with a silent spell, Dumbledore straitened and placed an aged hand on Ephiriam's shoulder. "Thank you for alerting us to these concerns. Please, return to class." Glancing over his half-moon spectacles at Tom, he added, "Both of you."

III

Ephiriam undeniably failed in preventing the spread of hysteria. Within moments, it seemed, the whole school knew about the attack, with varying degrees of accuracy. Some who had actually seen the body, and therefore should have known better, swore on tales of grisly murder, while others accused Peeves of his usual trickery, though none had any idea how the poltergeist could have pulled it off.

And then there was that other subgroup, the ones harping on about Slytherin's monster. Tom did his best to dissuade such rumours when he could, not that it did much good. Before days end, speculation was already spreading about the rest of the legend: Slytherin's heir.

Tom wasn't sure if he was relieved or annoyed that he hadn't made the short list. Really, who thought that oaf of a Slytherin team captain had the brain cells required to discover the Chamber of Secrets? He barely had enough cognition to find his own lashes without poking his eyes out. Tom consoled himself with the fact that people didn't suspect him by his own design. If he was to be Head Boy, it wouldn't due to have a reputation as a common thug, or as a common anything, for that matter.

Still, he was going to make that infernal snake into Serpent Soup if he didn't cease its little rebellious phase. Tom was the master here, and he would not be jerked around by a mere beast, no matter how many centuries it had slept away.

He found Ophelia pacing outside the Slytherin Common Room, looking haggard and not knowing the password to get inside. Indeed, he heard her echoing steps on the cold stones long before he saw her.

"There you are!" She trailed to a stop. "Ephiriam told me about what happened."

Tom uttered the password, ushering her inside, before responding. "And? Is there a reason for this information or do you merely wish my congratulations on your ability to listen?"

He pointedly avoided looking in her direction as he slipped onto one of the long couches, feeling her ire needling into him from the entryway.

"I know you aren't stupid," she finally said, fisting her hands on her hips. "Is there really no reason, none at all, that you can think of as to why this might be a problem?"

Tom pushed away his own swirling thoughts to focus the full force of his annoyance on her. "I beg your pardon?"

"No need to beg," she assured, ignoring the dangerous lilt of his voice in favour of sarcasm. "Don't you think that some _interested_ third parties might be behind this last attack?"

The worried look she tried to hide was what reminded him of the conversation he'd overheard between her and Dumbledore after one of the animal attacks. Of coarse, she thought Grindelwald was behind it.

"I really don't think your worries are founded," he said carefully, looking around to make sure they were alone.

"I really don't think you know who we're dealing with," she countered, matching his tone. "Dumbledore said it was Dark Magic. Who else could it be?"

"You aren't thinking clearly," he soothed calmly, not sure how to convince her without revealing his own unwitting involvement in the crime. "Sleep it over. In the morning you'll see the truth here. What does- he- have to gain from attacking some random Ravenclaw? How would he even get into the castle?"

"I don't know, I'm sure he'd think of something!"

"Certainly not your best argument," he sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

After such an eventful day, his patience was running thin, forcing him to work hard to not snap at Ophelia's misplaced concerns. If she knew what actually lurked within the castle walls, she'd be a tad more concerned. As things stood the odds of his house of cards coming crumbling down was looking worryingly possible, so maybe she would find out sooner rather than later.

No. He could not- _would_ not- let that happen. Countless before had strived to find the Chamber- and failed. It was still safely hidden away, and safely hidden away it would remain. Tom would make sure of that.

The cushions beside him dipped sharply as Ophelia dropped into them, exhaling dramatically for effect. "You really don't think he did this?"

"Why would I say as much if I thought otherwise?"

"Some people lie to make others feel better," she said, her teasing tone making it clear what she actually thought about Tom's chances about lying to spare her feelings.

"I can promise you this: I will never lie to you for such a useless reason," he guaranteed.

"Isn't that just what everyone likes to hear?" she joked softly.

They went quiet for a time, languishing in the relative peace of the moment and uncertain when it might come again. Only when he felt a slight pressure on his shoulder did Tom deign to reopen his eyes to find Ophelia fast asleep. She had to be, for Tom could see no other situation where she'd wilfully leave herself so exposed.

After a moment, Tom knew he had to make his move, yet still he stalled for a minute longer. Two. Three Finally, he stood up to leave, carefully removing Ophelia's head from his shoulder and laying her out flat on the couch so as not to wake her. He wondered what she dreamed about, looking as troubled as she did, or if she dreamed at all. When she closed her eyes, did she see Grindelwald? Did she see the life she'd have if they were ever reunited?

Tom took a graceless, stumbling step back, and shook off the thought. What did it matter? It shouldn't. So why did want to keep her from Grindelwald? Tom didn't exactly disagree with the dark wizard's ambitions, after all.

Tom wasn't entirely stupid. He knew exactly why, and he hated himself for the weakness.

As stupid as he wasn't, he still didn't know how light a sleeper Ophelia proved to be from years on the run with her uncle, nor how light on her feet that had consequently made her, because she followed him out of the dungeons, through winding corridors, up several sets of stairs to the girl's bathroom, and finally down, deep within the school into the Chamber of Secrets.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _You know what's always bothered me? If Colin creevy survived after seeing the Basilisk through the lens of his camera, wouldn't it make sense for moaning Myrtle to survive if she saw the Basilisk through_** _**her glasses? Maybe I'm missing something idk.**_

 _ **What do you all think? JKR I require answers.**_

 ** _On another note, (I dont think it's much of a spoiler at this point since I presume we've all read the books by now lmao) what do you think the boy looked through to see the Basilisk and not die? I don't really plan on going into it bc it's not really a big part of the story. Certainly Tom Riddle wouldn't care why he didn't die, but I did leave a hint of uncertain vagueness in the chapter. Other hint: not a puddle, mirror, or camera._**

 ** _Final comment: the reason Dumbledore didn't say he knew how to undue the petrification when we know he knows it's the mandrakes in book 2 is because I'm taking liberties. Of course he'd know in book 2 because he'd already been through all that madness once before, but at this point I'm assuming it's never come up yet. This is his learning curve!_**


	13. XIII

To Ophelia, there seemed a disproportionate amount of cloak and dagger at work to merely have followed Tom to the lady's bathroom. Was it a peculiar destination for a sixteen year old boy to sneak off to in the dead of night? For sure. Did it seem anticlimactic to tail him all the way from the dungeons only to watch him slip into a restroom? Even more so.

Now that she thought about it, she never did ask him why she'd caught him walking out of one those weeks prior. She would have, had Dumbledore not interrupted, and then a thousand more interruptions chased the memory from her mind. Until now.

She paused, ear to the door, listening for any sound. None came. After waiting a minute more to be sure, she pulled lightly down on the handle and crept into the room.

Why was she sneaking? Surely, _she, an actual human girl,_ had more right to be there than he did? Nonetheless, she chose to err on the side of caution, entirely for no reason, it turned out. He was nowhere to be found. That was not to say, however, that she didn't know where he'd gone. That much was obvious.

The massive gaping abyss in the middle of the room that she was almost entirely certain hadn't been there the last time she'd been inside was some indication. Edging up to it, she looked into the inky darkness only to find... more darkness.

Without any loose objects nearby forthcoming, she tore the top button from her shirt, enchanted it to a weight befitting that of a sizeable brick, and nudged it over the ledge.

She waited, her expression pulling down more and more into a frown the longer she waited without hearing the button thud against the ground.

" _Accio_ _button_ ," she whispered, pulling out her wand after some time had passed.

She counted off one, two, three, four... seventeen, eighteen, nineteen seconds before the small plastic collided with her cold fingers with a painful _whap_! All the weight she'd added to make it hopefully land loud enough for her to hear instead created a propulsive force that shot into her hand with enough concentrated power to break bone.

She bit down her yelp, and had enough sense to move her wand to her right hand before waving it wildly in silent agony.

"I'm stronger than a bloody button," she muttered when she had enough self control to open her mouth without cursing loud enough to wake the entire floor. "I will not be defeated by a _button_."

Shooting said button annoyed glances, she reversed it back to its correct weight and repaired it to its rightful place on her blouse.

Nineteen seconds from wherever it had been to her hand. She was no physicist, but Ophelia felt she could hazard a guess that that was at least a deep enough drop to be a "dead on impact" kind of jump. Which begged the question: had Tom really gone for it? He certainly wasn't anywhere else, so he must have.

Trusting her knowledge of Tom's character just enough to say he wouldn't throw himself into any mysterious holes if he thought it was going to be lethal, she propped herself upon the lip of the tunnel and leapt.

III

Although Ophelia had been prepared to cast a spell to prevent her grisly flattening, it turned out there was no need. The tunnel evened into a slide that dropped her only about a foot off the ground. Could have been worse, even if the grime that now coated her like a second skin was less than ideal. It was of a type that even after she vanished it all away, she could still feel its slickness, despite knowing it was all gone.

" _Lumos_."

For a moment, the chamber took her breath away. In contrast to the hazardous waste chute that was the tunnel to get there, the actual room was something out of an entirely different age. A different century. A different millennium. Unlit braziers that looked to be solid gold, based on the way they reflected her wandlight, hung at set intervals along the walls, not that Ophelia was foolish enough to light one. Even her meagre wandlight felt like too much as it was.

Reminding herself she didn't jump into a hole of questionable origins for sightseeing, Ophelia pressed forward.

III

 _"Don't presume to think I will not return you to your slumber if you disobey me any longer_ ," Tom threatened in Parseltongue. " _You are nothing to me. I will not have you ruining my plans_."

The Basilisk reared it's head back in what would appear to be a menacing way to anyone else. " _And you, human boy, presume to order me, king of serpents near and far, on what to do? I could kill now for the insolence! I could_ -" Abruptly, the beast's massive nostrils flared, and in a near purr, he continued, " _I see you have brought me another snack."_

Tom, although taken aback by the abrupt change in mood, got over his confusion swiftly. " _Of course I didn't. I'm not here to reward your behaviour."_

" _Nevertheless, a little mouse has foolishly wandered into my lair..."_

With no further warning, the Basilisk darted away to the entrance of the chamber as quick as it's massive body would allow. The ground nearby his rolling, weaving frame seemed to tremble with the force of his movement. Tom's searched past the writhing mountain of scales to the point of the beast's focus and his heart stalled, before it stopped beating altogether.

No.

Ophelia. It was impossible. She couldn't be here- shouldn't have been able to get in at all.

 _"SHUT YOUR EYES_!" Tom thundered, not entirely sure to whom the command was directed.

Only when his Basilisk slid to an abrupt halt did he realise how the words had tore from his mouth in a rasping hiss. They felt heavy, as though they held a physical weight in the air, and Tom knew, for the first time with absolute certainty, that the Basilisk would obey. He knew it the same way that he knew if he pricked his finger he would bleed, or that if he ventured outside he'd see stars.

Ophelia was nearly as quick. Where others would have ran away screaming or fainted to a massive snake charging towards them, she lunged to the side, wordlessly conjouring a staggering shockwave. The spell stood no chance against the basilisk's magically enhanced scales, but it's dying ripples nearly lifted Tom off his feet, despite not being in the direct path.

The basilisk whipped its head around, following Ophelia by scent as she ducked away. His forked tasted the air where she'd stood seconds before, ravenously hungering for the first real meal he'd had in centuries.

" _Stop_ ," Tom commanded as the creature's muscles tensed to lunge once more.

The same heaviness accompanied the words as before, and the beast tremored, as though fighting against invisible chains wrapping themselves around every inch of the straining, furious serpent.

Ophelia lifted her wand again, but Tom was faster. " _Expelliarmus_!"

Only as her her wand was torn from her hand did her face turn truly ashen, dots no doubt connecting nefariously as her wide blue and black eyes darted between him and the restrained Basilisk.

Tensing up as though in preparation to run at a moment's notice, her voice came out surprisingly calm, if not a bit tight. " _What the hell is this."_

Not a question.

"Give. Me. My. Wand," she continued through clenched teeth.

"Not until I explain," Tom said, taking several careful steps forward.

She matched each of them backwards, shaking her head in disbelief. And something else. Distrust. She hadn't looked at him that way in months, not since he'd first proposed their sham friendship.

"Or what? What you going to do to me?"

Tom couldn't mistake that real trace of fear underlying her words, despite the haughty tone. She didn't think he would hurt her, but she didn't know either. Doubts still needled her mind, no matter how adept she was at hiding it, and, unlike before, Tom learned how to see past the many fronts she put up to mask her thoughts that had once kept him in the dark. It wasn't Legilimency; that still proved ineffective. He actually hadn't even attempted to force his way into her mind in... too long. He hadn't even realised he stopped.

"I'm not going to do anything to you," he said warily, surprised to find the words tasted true on his tongue. "We are just going to talk."

She huffed out a laugh, one that said she found nothing remotely funny about the situation. Derisive. Cynical. "About what? I'm no idiot, Tom Riddle. I may have never heard Parseltongue before, but that doesn't mean I can't recognise it! You- and that thing- are behind the attack on that boy, aren't you? What else could have done it?"

Tom twirled their wands absently between his long fingers, her redwood one feeling both foreign and unnaturally warm in his hands, and not in a altogether pleasant way. It resented being stolen from its chosen master.

"Let me explain," he repeated.

"I can't believe I was beginning to trust you! I thought- I thought maybe I was being too paranoid, but I never would have guessed I was not being paranoid enough-"

 _"I will not beg_!" Tom finally snapped, his patience finally at its end. "But I will remind you that I, at least, listened before passing judgement on you and Grindelwald."

Ophelia opened and closed her mouth several times, evidently at a loss for words. With the air of someone already regretting their decision, she ground out, "At least let me have my wand."

"If you promise not to run away screaming the second it's in your hands."

She bristled. "I do not _scream_."

"You didn't say anything about running," he noted.

"Send your pet away and you have a deal," she said unhappily, holding a hand out expectantly. "For some reason, having blood thirsty monsters breathing over my shoulder is rather distracting."

 _"Leave us_ ," he commanded, not breaking eye contact with Ophelia as he bridged the gap between them to place her wand in her hand, his fingers lingering a second too long.

She pulled away first, and strode purposefully past him deeper into the newly Basilisk-free Chamber, spinning in a slow circle. "Is this place what I think it is?"

He nodded.

"Then I think you had better start explaining before I change my mind about running away screaming."

His lips twitched. "I thought you said you don't scream."

"Between you and Rubeus, it's a miracle I'm even staying on this continent. How many man-eating monsters can one school have?"

"Better not tell you about the chimaera in the Trophy Room, then," Tom said, deadpan.

She stilled momentarily, as though considering the legitimacy his claim. "Ha. Ha. Very funny."

"I certainly thought so."

"Excuse me, mister Minister of Magic, sir," she said sweetly, turning to an imaginary figure before her, pasting on her best doe-eyed expression, "You would not believe who is behind these strange attacks. Yes, it's actually the perfect Thomas Eustice Abernathy Riddle. I know, he surprised me too. And we all thought so very highly of him." She shook her head with exaggerated solemnity.

Tom was not amused. "That's not even close to my middle name, and you can't just make my first name longer because you feel like it."

"Well, I just did, didn't I?" she retorted wickedly.

Adopting her same over the top humility and ridiculously despairing tone, Tom said, "While you're here, Minister, you might actually find a particular fugitive you've been after. You know, nothing pains me more than this ongoing wizarding war with Grindelwald-"

"Okay, okay, okay, okay!" she cut him off, rolling her eyes. "Mutually assured destruction. Gotcha." She ran her fingers absently along the smooth marble head of a snarling serpentine statue, one of dozens that lined the path leading up to a massive effigy of Salazar Slytherin. Somberly, she peered up at him out of the corner of her eyes, expectantly. "Well? Are going to explain? And it better be one hell of an explanation, because if it isn't I'm going to be down breaking down the headmaster's door before you have time to even think ' _Obliviate_ ,' let alone say it."

Her joking tone bellied a true threat, and Tom didn't doubt her sincerity. The tightness around her eyes and the way her fingers flexed around her wand, winding and unwinding again and again, spoke volumes.

So he spoke. Starting the very beginning and leaving nothing out, even as he sometimes itched to gloss over the less glamorous aspects of his life, he stayed the course. Under any other circumstances, he would have undoubtedly balked at the idea of sharing so much with anyone. What business was it of others to know about his life? Yet, there was a sense of familiarity in Ophelia that drew him in, like a kindred spirit. She, too, was an orphan, shadowed by the legacy of near-legendary relatives, and hiding her true capabilities in order to blend in, but, whereas Tom was driven forward by a grand sense of purpose, she was suspended in time, too afraid to go forward and too conflicted to turn back while the grains of time enveloped her in their unforgiving embrace and threatened to swallow her whole.

And, not an inconsiderable part of him, felt a thrilling surge of satisfaction at the fact that another would finally see him as he was: the heir to the one of the greatest wizard's to ever live.

When he finished explaining how he'd found the chamber and it's unwilling inhabitant, detailing with an excessive,m emphasis how he had not ordered the attacks on the various pets and that student, she frowned and asked, "I still don't see why I shouldn't tell someone. If you can't control it-"

"I can," he cut in smoothly. "I wasn't properly... motivated before, but I can control him now. After all, if I couldn't, you would have dearly regretted following me here."

"I can't deny that," she said, grimacing. "I probably taste delicious."

"Don't give yourself too much credit. He eats rats."

Looking offended, she crossed her arms and assured him, "I'll have you know, I taste much better than a rodent."

"You are taking this rather well," he observed suspiciously, shaking his head at the ridiculous turn their conversation had taken.

"No." She laid back on the chamber floor and stared fixedly at the ceiling. "I most certainly am not taking this well, thank you very much, but it's too early in the morning to feel actual human emotions. Check up with me again in like four hours and I'm sure you'll find me properly distressed."

"I see."

"I won't say a word," she decided slowly, after a few minutes heavy silence. Tom looked at her sharply and she continued, "I won't say a word, but I swear, Tom, if I hear that so much as Hagrid's horrible, awful pet spider dies mysteriously, or even a tadpole, I'm telling Professor Dumbledore."

"That won't happen. I told you, I'm in control."

"What changed?"

Tom raised an eyebrow, asking her to elaborate.

"You couldn't control it this morning. What's changed since then?"

The question was in earnest, but Tom couldn't answer her. Even as the dim torch illuminated her face, her eyes, and he felt something foreign stir in his chest, he knew he couldn't- wouldn't- say. To admit it to himself was poison, but to admit it to her would be a dagger he handed her to stab him in the chest.

He found something he couldn't stand to lose. That's what changed, what awakened in him the ability to control the Basilisk. He didn't want her to die.

Instead, he simply answered, "I don't know."

Thankfully, for once, she didn't see through him and accepted the lie easily.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Oof. That was a long one, but it's finally done, at long last. From here on, things are going to be picking up and moving faster, so I really can't wait for that. Not to be the mother that loves one child more than the other, but I really do like writing some chapter more than others and these last few have been rough._**

 ** _Sooooooooo some of you might have noticed the change in Tom over these past dozen odd chapters and let me just say that that is by design and not just bad writing (although it could be that too lmao. What do I know?) *insert the "it's called growth" gif here* worry not, though, bc it'll all come full circle back to the villain we all know and hate. The point is, really, that having a friend that doesnt fear him or stick around to be close to his power humanizes him, whether he likes it or not._**

 ** _Anyway, comment your thoughts! Comments really keep me going and I love to read them!_**


	14. XIV

Neither brought up the Chamber again. They moved on. Pretended it didn't exist. Tom even overheard her dissuading Ephiriam of the whole matter, scoffing at the very idea of a secret lair built deep within the castle.

"Do you think Salazar Slytherin was some sort of super villain?" she laughed, nudging him as they pulled out their stools to sit in Potions, waiting for Slughorn to arrive.

"No," he defended, a hint embarrassed. "I merely thought he had a flair for drama. Really, if he did build a 'Chamber of Secrets' I think he's an inspiration to all of us. May we all be so unnecessarily dramatic. Augusta, back me up here."

Augusta looked grudgingly up from setting up her cauldron, slowly roving her eyes over the two of them. "You are both idiots."

"I resent being lumped together with you," Ophelia muttered in hushed undertones to Ephiriam. "You're the one who thought it was real."

"Settle down, class," Slughorn boomed, striding into the room. "We have much to get out of the way before we begin. Now, I'm sure you all are up to your heads busy preparing for your O.W.L.'s next week."

"Not bloody likely," Rabastan yawned from Tom's left.

"So I'll be keeping today light," Slughorn continued. "Any questions about the exam can be directed to me after class. If there isn't anything els- Oh, yes, Mister Thompson?"

A freckled Gryffindor boy lowered his waving hand and cleared his throat. "Is there any news on Luca?"

Like meerkats rising as one from their burrows, heads across the room lifted together in united interest at the mention of the attacked Ravenclaw.

Slughorn shuffled random items across his desk, though he seemed hardy aware he was doing it. "Nasty business, that. Nasty business... At present, I can't say much while the investigation is underway, but I can assure you that every precaution is being taken to prevent further incidents and bring about Luca's recovery."

"Do they know what did it?" another asked.

"Not yet, but Dumbledore will get to the bottom of it soon enough, just you wait."

From the far side of the room, someone made a cough that sounded suspiciously like, " _Slytherin's monster_."

Slughorn acted like he'd temporarily suffered a loss of hearing and didn't comment.

"Is it true he's being moved to St. Mungo's?"

"Professor Dumbledore and our wonderful school nurse are experimenting with various means of reviving the boy, but yes, his parents have requested a transfer if no solution becomes apparent."

"What about the rumour they going to close the school?"

Slughorn laughed off the concern. "Hogwarts is still the safest place in the country. I highly doubt it will close, unless the attacks continue, of course."

That "unless" seemed to hang heavy in the air.

"Now," Slughorn clapped his hands together, "let's get started, shall we?"

It hadn't occurred to Ophelia that Hogwarts could actually close, but of course it could, if it seemed lives were at risk. It was comforting to know, even if the cause of the attacks was far more frightening than any of the most outlandish theories out there, that it was over. Tom gave his word that he could control the Basilisk and she believed him, or at least wanted to. That whole mess was behind them, even if no one else knew it.

The screeching of the bench being pulled back alerted her to a newcomer, and then another. She glanced up pleadingly in Slughorn's direction, for three to a single bench was beyond regulation, but he had pulled Tom into a conversation and was blissfully unaware of the infraction. Only when a third leaned against the her table in front of her, hands flat and head sticking out just above the cauldron.

"Can I help you?" Ophelia asked, glancing curiously between them.

They shot each other meaningful looks that seemed to hold entire conversations worth of unspoken understanding. Ophelia resisted the urge to add, _Well, get on with it_ , because it wouldn't have suited her image. Finally, the one in front swept her eyes furtively across the room, before leaning dangerously over the cauldron.

"We've been meaning to ask for awhile now, but _they_ ," a nod at her friends, "have been too intimidated to say anything."

"Don't act like you weren't, too, Mary," the red-head directly beside Ophelia inputted, obviously irked at being called out.

"Whatever." Mary shrugged, unabashed. "Anyway, a lot of rumours have been going around about you."

Ophelia stiffened. "Is that so?"

"Oh yes. Are they true?"

"I wouldn't know, would I? I had no idea people were even talking about me."

"Not just you," the red-head added. "They're talking about you and, well," she dropped her voice to a near whisper, " _you_ - _know-who_."

"I really don't," Ophelia said, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach.

"You know," she urged, " _him_. What's the story?"

Subconsciously, Ophelia's eyes began darting between the girls, Slughorn, and the exit. How'd they find out? She'd only dyed her roots a little over a week ago, so they couldn't have drawn any conclusions based on her hair, but she was never cautious enough about averting her gaze.

Grindelwald wouldn't have told anyone, because, despite his faults, he genuinely cared. He wouldn't risk vigilantes coming after her as revenge against him, nor did it serve his purposes to give the Ministry leverage.

The only two others in the world who knew were Tom and Dumbledore, and the mere notion that Dumbledore sold her out was unthinkable. Which only left-

"Tom," the third exclaimed when Ophelia had been silent for too long, drawing several pairs of eyes their way. "You cannot seriously be this daft. We are talking about you and Tom."

Ophelia was so surprised she didn't have time to take offense. "I beg your pardon?"

"What's going on with you and Tom!" they demanded in unison, not even a question anymore.

"I- nothing. We're just friends."

Her shocked laughter served only to encourage them further.

"But he always asks you to sit with him during meals, despite being in different Houses," the girl leaning dangerously into Ophelia's cauldron fumes pointed out eagerly.

"Asks," was not the word Ophelia would have used. "Blackmails," maybe. "Coerces," yes. "Orders," definitely. But she got a feeling they wouldn't believe her if she corrected them, so she merely said, "So?"

They seemed to be growing frustrated. " _So_ he doesn't do that with anyone else."

"And I've heard he's defended you from bullying."

"Twice."

"It wasn't bullying," Ophelia defended. "They were just... disagreements."

Even though she knew they were the ones out of line, her excuses sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"Plus, he ordered everyone to not get payback," the ginger witch included. "Even Fenella when you knocked her lights out in the middle of breakfast."

That one she did feel a bit bad about, although the extent of Tom's involvement in all three of those debacles exceeded what she'd expected by far.

"I don't know what to tell you," she said dismissively. "There's honestly nothing going on."

"Really?"

"Really."

The red-head seemed a bit put out by the news, but she was the only one. The other two couldn't mask their triumphant grins, just diabolical enough to make Ophelia wonder if she shouldn't have lied to save Tom a load of future trouble.

Then again, maybe he enjoyed the attention.

"Alright, you four, back to work," Slughorn intervened, finally turning away from his conversation, and the slinked away to their respective cauldrons.

III

An hour later, as they all packed away their things, she found herself in another sticky situation.

"I expect you'll be coming to my little get together later tonight?" Slughorn asked, winking jovially at Tom. "And Ophelia, as well?"

Tom smiled ingratiatingly. "Of course, sir. I wouldn't miss it for the world. We'll both see you there."

Over Slughorn's shoulder, Ophelia shot him an indignant look, mouthing, _We_? _What do you mean we_?

Slughorn clapped his hands together once in satisfaction. "Wonderful! The more the merrier. Can I finally tempt you, Longbottom? I'm determined I'll get you one of these days."

Ephiriam slung his bag over his shoulder. "I'd love to, Professor, but-"

"Splendid, splendid!"

Ephiriam looked inclined to elaborate on his polite refusal, but just as he opened his mouth to do so Ophelia snaked an arm through his, saying, "You heard him, sir. He'd love to come."

The smile she fixed Ephiriam with was anything but kind. _If I must suffer, so must you_ , it seemed to say.

Tom extricated himself, dodging past his usual shadows, before he could see how the exchanges ended and before he could tear the two away from each other. Arrangements needed to be made before getting together with Slughorn that evening, after all, and his irritation had nothing to do with that conversation he'd overheard while Slughorn tried to regale him with tales of his youth. Not at all.

III

Ophelia was already in Slughorn's office when Tom and the rest of his friends arrived. Longbottom was nowhere to be seen.

She turned to him, smiling as he sat down. Between gritted teeth, smile unfaltering, she hissed so only he could hear, "This is torture."

"Don't be dramatic," he whispered back.

"A real friend would have offered me an easy out."

"Maybe I don't want to be friends then," he said, not entirely what it was he was implying.

She didn't either. "Well, it's too late for that, isn't it? You're stuck with me now, and me with you." Sighing tragically, she continued, "Oh, the horror."

Tom softened, slightly. "Excuse me while I greet our host."

"What is that?" She pointed to the box in his hands.

"Not for you," he said simply, striding away to the professor.

"Tom!" Slughorn winked. "I see you've brought our favorite little Gryffindor."

"She was just telling me how delighted she was to be here," Tom lied, her "torture" comment fresh in his mind.

"We all knew she would! Once they start coming, they can never resist another taste! Oh," he looked at the package Tom carried, his eyes glinting, "is that for me?"

Tom nodded. "I heard they are your favorite."

He backed away to give Slughorn time to ruminate over his gift, and wiled away the hours showering the man's ego with subtle compliments to almost comical proportions. A few times, when he'd laid it on a little too thick, Ophelia shot him disbelieving looks out of the corner of his eye, as though questioning his sanity.

"Sir, is it true that professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn wagging his finger reprovingly at him, though winking at the same time. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."

Tom smiled, while the boy's behind him just laughed. Ophelia narrowed her eyes.

"What with your uncanny ability to new things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter— thank you for the pineapple by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts in the ministry."

"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," Tom said, trying to keep complete abhorrence from his tone. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."

"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom. I've never been wrong about a student yet."

The small golden clock standing up on his desk chimed 11 o'clock behind him and he looked around.

"Good gracious, is it that time already? You better get going, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

Ophelia waited, as the others trailed out, but in a split second decision he told her to go ahead without him. He had a feeling he would have better luck broaching the next conversation if there were no witnesses.

Slughorn seemed surprised to find him still standing there when he turned around.

"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you're a prefect..."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away..."

"Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes."

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Okay. No need to tell me I goofed. Believe me, I KNOW. Lowkey kicking myself for forgetting that Tom already had the ring by the time he talked to Slughorn about horcruxes. Whoops. My bad. If I ever go back to thoroughly edit this work(probably not) I'll need to make that alteration to the plot line_**


	15. XV

In the Chamber, far away from any eavesdropping ears in the only place Tom deemed safe enough for their conversation, Tom told Ophelia about his plan and what he'd learned from Slughorn. He sent the Basilisk away when she expressed in no uncertain to terms that she would not set so much as a foot on the same _floor_ as the bathroom again if the serpent was within a hundred yards. He wasn't sure what he expected—jubilation, maybe?— but, as she listened to him explain about Horcruxes, a most peculiar expression overtook her soft features. A sweet sort of sadness that not even the most skillfully painted portrait in the castle could hope to replicate.

"Then," he concluded, "if I split my soul, Grindelwald could never dream of beating me. You would remain safe, as long as you stayed by my side."

She shook her head slowly. "No, Tom."

"What do you mean, 'No'?" he snapped.

How could she not see the brilliance of it? It would solve all their problems. So long as he couldn't die, he could always bring her back. They would both always be safe.

"I mean forget about this idea. I forbid you from going any further."

"You _forbid_ me?" he challenged, taking a step forward. "Not that you could stop me, but do tell. Why?"

She pushed herself off the head of the striking snake statue where she'd sat herself, criss-cross, and met him in the middle of the room before answering.

"Simple." She raised a hand to his chest and pressed it softly over his heart. "I like your soul just the way it is. There's no force in this world strong enough to convince me it's worth risking it. Not even my uncle."

For once, Tom was at a loss for words. Warmth seemed to spread from her palm, washing gently over his skin and then sinking deeper. He raised a hand if his own and wrapped it carefully around her wrist, keeping her hand where it was.

"And what about you?" he asked finally.

"It's taken me a long time to figure it out, arguably a bit too long, but I don't need a protector, not you, and not Dumbledore, not really. If it would keep you safe and whole, I'd leave Hogwarts without looking back and gladly rejoin my uncle right now." Her fingers curled closed on his chest and he was certain she could feel his heart beating. "What I really needed, when I came to this school, was a friend, even if I didn't know it. I found that."

 _In you_ , was what she didn't need to say.

Grindelwald, who was foolish enough to let her slip away once, would never get her again, Tom thought then. She was _his_. He would never let anyone else have her.

"Promise me..." His grip tightened on her arm. "Swear to me, you won't go back, no matter what happens."

She looked momentarily up into his eyes, then moved to avert her gaze like she always did, but he lifted his other hand to her chin, tilting it back up.

"You shouldn't have to hide your eyes," he murmured. "From anyone, and especially not from me."

She seemed to have stopped breathing. "And you shouldn't have to hide who you truly are."

He didn't tell her she was wrong. He knew who he was, and it wasn't pretty. He wasn't kind. He didn't balk at the suffering of others. He didn't particularly care about the consequences of his actions if he got what he wanted. But he did care about her. She made him better, she made him even want to _be_ better.

She saw straight through him and, for whatever reason, what she saw didn't disgust her.

"I'll make you a deal."

Tom quirked his head, keeping her pinned with his gaze. "What kind of deal?"

She swallowed. "Promise me you won't split your soul and I'll promise I won't go back."

"An Unbreakabel Vow?"

She laughed lightly. "No... nothing so extreme. I trust you."

"You really shouldn't," he said, gravitating closer.

"I'm willing to take that chance," Ophelia said wryly, her lips finally pulling out of their sad tilt into a full smile.

That was all it took.

Before he could second guess himself, or even consciously make the decision at all, his lips found hers.

A mistake. He knew it was a mistake. They both knew.

Still, neither pulled away.

His hand fell from her wrist, wrapping around her hip possessively. She tasted to him like a sweet poisoned wine.

If she was a poison, what did that make him? Maybe he was the poison instead, and she the cure. Maybe he should never have spoken two words to her. Maybe he should have left her alone, let them remain merely two ships passing in the night. It almost would have been easier. But it was too late now. He couldn't let go. He never _could_ give up one of his possessions, even as a child.

"I promise," he whispered into the torch-lit silence. There was nothing else to say, nothing else that would mean anything.

"Then so do I."

III

As the basilisk raised it's massive head, lifting Tom out of the Chamber, Tom was too distracted to listen for any noises as he reopened the entrance to climb out. Ophelia had left about an hour earlier, confused and slightly flustered. It went without saying that she planned on finding her own way out; the idea that she'd permit the basilisk to lift her out like it always did Tom was laughable. Tom stayed behind to clear his head and rationalize his thinking, not that it worked. Eventually, he gave up left as well. His head was too busy buzzing with thoughts of what had happened and even more with what hadn't happened to register the sniffles permeating from one of the stalls, until a small, enraged voice called out, "Who's there?"

His hesitation only lasted a second, yet it was still a second too long.

" _Close_!" he hissed fervently in Parseltongue, in spite the of the Basilisk's scaled head still sticking slightly out of the entrance to the pit.

A latch clicked behind him. " _Go aw_ -"

The basilisk blinked, and Tom realized he'd failed in the most important order. He girl never even finished her sentence before she hit the ground. This time, definitely, Tom knew she wasn't petrified, even before he dropped to her side and his hand numbly felt for a pulse.

By the time the Chamber entrance slid closed behind them, the girl's cheeks, still wet with tears, lost most of their former colour. Her twin pig tails served to make her look younger, unremarkable, like any child he'd see at the orphanage.

There was nothing he could do for her. Each subtle drip from the faucet sounded like thunder and caused his eyes to dart toward the door.

He needed to leave. He could not be found with a dead girl, especially not in a place where he seemingly had no right to be.

After checking he left nothing incriminating behind, he did just that, all the while thinking, _How could I have let this happen_?

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Short chapter, but man if a lot didn't happen... I hope it doesn't feel like things are going too fast. It s hard to find a good pace between progressing the story and giving each scene the attention it deserves. NGL I hadn't intended the kiss to happen when I started the chapter, or outlined the chapters weeks ago, but i feel like it was the right decision all things considered._**

 ** _All be warned, the next two chapters are going to be ROUGH (for you, not me lol) *insert evil cackles here*_**

 ** _On an unrelated note, I have like three other HP works I'm writing sporadically, and I was wondering if it would be worth uploading them here? Is that of interest to anyone?_**

 ** _Not gonna go super into it but the gist of them are_**

 ** _1) What awful events caused the triwizard tournament to become banned in the first place? (About halfway done) More or less a mystery where the main plot is to find out who in Hogwarts is out to kill the protag and why._**

 ** _2) AU where Harry died with his parents. From the perspective of the sister of the replacement boy who lived: Neville. His parents survive untortured bc Bella and the death eaters saw no particular reason to hunt them, as Voldemort never disappeared, so the protag is born. She makes an unlikely hero, as everyone expects the world of her prophesy bound brother and nothing of her. (Only a few chapters in)_**

 ** _3.) REWRITING a Sirius Black story, (I think I already have the three chapters up here), that revolves around the first wizarding war with Voldemort where the Gryffindor bloodline remained strong through the ages, unlike the others, until Voldemort slaughters all of them except the three heirs to the house, not for a lack of trying. It follows the middle child's quest to avenge her family and various people's attempts (particularly Sirius) to drag her out of that downward spiral._**


	16. XVI

_13 June, 1942_

 _I just killed a girl._

 _The rumour is they might close Hogwarts_ — _permanently. Parents already pull their children out as I write this, even though the body was found mere hours ago. There was nothing I could do, really, but better the girl dead than aware of the Chamber. My ancestors have_ _kept it secret for centuries and I will not be the one to share it with the world. Something still must be done to keep Hogwarts open, however. I_ _have an idea, but I fear Ophelia will never forgive me for it._

 _I wonder if she intends to run to her precious Dumbledore._

 _I wonder, if she did, whether I have it in me to stop her_.

 **Except from T. M. Riddle's diary, 13 June 1942**

III

The castle was nearly as empty as it was during the summer holidays. Those still there scarcely left their dormitories out of fear, even many of the professors were reluctant to monitor the halls when the Headmaster commanded them. Technically, Ophelia was confined to the common room as well, but who was there to catch her?

She couldn't muster the energy to be afraid. At least she knew what manner of creature lurked beneath the school.

Maybe, she thought ruefully, her brief kiss with Tom had clouded her judgement. Could really have only been a few hours ago? It felt like years had passed. She hadn't been sure of what to think of it before the murder and she certainly didn't know what to think of it now.

She considered the possibility that she'd been a fool to believe anything Tom Riddle ever said. She'd imagined herself, quite arrogantly, impervious to any manipulation after years of living with the most manipulative person that side of the Atlantic, yet there was still a chance she was wrong. She hoped she wasn't. She wanted to believe the whole situation was a mistake, an accident, but still her consciousness needled at her until if felt like her heart and mind alike were riddled with wholes.

"A quiet night, isn't it?" Dumbledore observed, silently coming up beside her and following her gaze to the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. From her vantage point, she could just make out the tips of his boots beneath his periwinkle robes. "You'll give someone a fright, laying as you are."

His words, though on the surface light, were tinged enough solemnity to tug uncomfortably on her heart.

Ophelia sat up, watching him watch the sweeping ocean of stars. "In my defense, I didn't much think I'd get caught." Though it didn't match up with the gravity of the situation, she added halfheartedly, "My bad."

Dumbledore looked at her then, in the consuming, analyzing way that only he could, the way that felt like he was stripping someone bare and seeing past all their deceptive layers. "What troubles you, my dear girl?"

"Other than what troubles us all?" she asked evasively, immediately wishing she'd said anything else when she noticed the spike of sadness that crossed his expression. She curled her arms around her legs, feeling like a guilty child next to Dumbledore. "I'm just so tired of death. I'm so tired of it all. It seems like I can't escape it."

"For it to get easier would be for one to lose their compassion and their humanity," he replied sagely.

 _I don't care about my humanity if that means I don't have to feel this way again,_ she wanted to say, but she didn't, because even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. She did care.

"That sounds exactly like something you would say, sir," she settled on instead.

Dumbledore lifted a single white brow and she got the impression he knew she'd substituted " _something_ " for " _some nonsense_ " in her head.

"I might hope so. I did just say it, after all."

Uncertain how to respond to that, as with many of the odd things he said, she stayed quiet. The silence ensued was less awkward then it was contemplative. Within her, two opposing desires clashed and stole most of her focus.

 _Tell him!_

 _I can't!_

 _Tell! Him!_

 _What about Tom?_

As if sensing her unease, Dumbledore said, "If you knew anything at all about what killed that girl, it wouldn't be held against you. It would bring her poor family peace."

Again, she got the impression that he knew far more than he was supposed to, far more than was even possible.

The words grazed the tip of her tongue, they filled up the tight space in her throat and clogged her lungs, making breathing impossible. _The Chamber is real. It's all real and so much worse than you imagine._

Yet, no words came out. Already, she saw the follow up questions, if not from Dumbledore then from the Ministry or the Headmaster. _How do you know? Did you open it? Did you kill that girl? No? Then who_?

And she wouldn't be able to answer. She couldn't allow herself to get onto the Ministry's radar, for one thing, but, moreover, she'd have to admit to being complicit in hiding the Chamber, and most of all, more than anything, she couldn't send Tom to prison over an accident. Was it an even an accident, though? She had to believe she hadn't misjudged him so much. The Ravenclaw boy and all the animals hadn't been on purpose, so there was still that high chance. She'd seen a darkness in him, certainly, but she had also seen a degree of softness, too. Everyone had some amount of darkness under the wrong circumstances; that didn't make them murderers.

Still, she cursed her loyal heart. After all these years, nothing had changed. Her affection for Grindelwald had prevented her from doing the right thing once, and now the same sentiment stayed her hand with Tom.

"I'm sorry." She made herself meet Dumbledore's eyes. "I'm afraid I have no idea, Professor. None at all."

Dumbledore escorted her back to her dormitory, well, nearly back. They parted ways about a floor away, when he was confident she could make it back safely. Unfortunately for him, she merely waited until he was out of sight and continued on her merry meandering way. Going back to Gryffindor Tower and sitting in brooding silence with others held little appeal.

To her surprise, and— if she were entirely honest— a small degree of irritation, she ran into Tom as she thoughtlessly wandered past the Headmaster's office. She'd wasn't sure how to confront him about what had happened and fear that he'd actually done it on purpose had up till then kept her far away.

"I saw you talking to Dumbledore," he said carefully, his old walls raised again like they had never left. She didn't actually consciously remember him lowering them. At least the distrust was mutual.

Ophelia trailed to a stop, keeping the gap between them wide. "I didn't say anything, if that's what you're getting at."

He glanced around them warily, looking to assure there were no potential eavesdroppers. "I never asked if you did."

"But you still wanted to know."

He didn't deny it. "Aren't you going to ask what happened?"

"There is no excuse for what happened," she replied stiffly.

A shadow flickered across face, there and gone in a second. "Will you condemn me, too, then? I did not touch her. Should you be held responsible for every death at," he dropped his voice an octave, " _his_ hand?"

That struck a cord, not because her immediate reaction was "of course not" but rather because that was a question she'd been struggling with for years.

"You could at least pretend to be upset about it!" she hissed, more sad than angry.

"Don't tell me how I do and do not feel."

Just as her blood pressure spiked, she stepped away, shaking her head. "This conversation was a mistake."

"Where are you going?"

"To pack. If the castle is going to close, I'd like a head start on those who might come after me."

"No," Tom contested firmly. "I said I'd look after you. You won't stand a chance on your own."

"It doesn't look like I have much of a choice now, do I?" She added bitterly, "And despite your glowing endorsements of my abilities, I'm actually a rather good witch. I've been looking after myself for years."

"I never said you weren't," he said softly, so feather light that she almost missed it.

She didn't look back. "I'm glad I met you, Tom. Maybe we'll see each other again one day when you don't have the Trace. I'll look forward to it."

Tom stepped out of Professor Dippet's office fifteen minutes later filled to the brim with a sense of mounting resolve. He barely even acknowledged Dumbledore. He scarcely even cared that Dumbledore was probably probing him for signs of guilt. He couldn't have known anything for sure, or else he would already acted on it. No, Dumbledore was like an irritating fly Tom couldn't get rid of, but ultimately not a real threat. For then.

Tom knew what he had to do, yet he still dallied. The school could not be allowed to close and, by that same token, Ophelia could not be allowed to leave. On the other hand, Tom would allow himself to get caught. The problem came with reconciling three things.

The answer was simple: they needed a scape goat. The premier pawn was just as obvious. Still, a feeling almost, almost akin to guilt kept Tom lingering in the corridor and not in the dungeons, where he'd need to be to execute his burgeoning scheme.

He ran through the facts again: a scape goat would ensure Hogwarts remained open to continue a legacy begun by his ancestor, a scape goat would mean Ophelia's safe haven would remain as such, and a scape goat would keep Tom free of blame.

Tom, of course, were he the more noble sort, could have turned himself in. At sixteen, though, he didn't much care for his odds of being let go, so close to adulthood. Would they send him to Azkaban? It certainly wasn't unheard of, with the death of one student and the life of another still in question- but what a waste that would be for the most brilliant student to ever set foot within those castle walls to rot away his life in prison?

Luckily, the best choice happened to be young enough to escape that horrific fate, at least. The Ministry didn't send thirteen year old's to Azkaban, and with his giant's blood and that conveniently illegal spider, Rubeus Hagrid held promise. It was ridiculous to imagine him as the noble Heir of Slytherin, but Tom had sold bigger lies before.

 **A/N**

 **This chapter was gross all round. It just wasn't coming to me, man, and for some reason it didn't want to upload. It's basically just a filler to get from where I was to where I want to be, but I couldn't exactly skip it, because what happens in the next chapter depends on what this chapter led up to. I didn't show him talking to Dippet bc we already see that in the second book, just like I didn't actually show him talk to Slughorn, and I won't show him framing Hagrid. It would be boring to repeat, so be prepared for the consequences of both of their actions. They WILL be hefty.**


	17. XVII

"You should eat. You've barely eaten anything for days." Ephiriam held up a spoon full of bland porridge, a food still unappetising at the best of times. "Say, _ahh_."

Ophelia brushed his hand away from her face with no small degree of disgust. "I'm not a child, and I'm not hungry."

He granted her a skeptical smile. "Could have fooled me, kiddo. Why the long face? You should be celebrating, like the rest of us."

Against her better judgement, she ducked her head low and asked, "You don't actually believe that's the end of it, right? You can't seriously think everything— the attacks on the animals, the petrification, the murder— were all accidents?"

He lowered the threatening spoon. "Of course not, it's obvious the school is covering something up, but who cares? They wouldn't have us all back if it weren't safe again. Although... I wouldn't mind them closing it again, just until O.W.L season has passed, you know."

"Your optimism is dazzling." She pushed her empty plate away and rested her eyes in her palms, letting the muted reds and blues of her eyelids soothe her aching conscience.

"Oh, no. None of that. We are both going to sit here until you eat, young lady." Ephiriam crossed his arms in wait.

"You are too young to be my mother," Ophelia sighed grudgingly lifting her gaze to look at him, but they snagged on something else at the other end of the hall.

"Please, your mother could only dream of being as dazzling as myself— your words, not mine..."

He might have kept taking, but Ophelia didn't hear it. She didn't wait and eat, as Ephiriam so strongly recommended. No, she was across the room before the incessant waterfall of words even finished falling from his mouth.

"Rubeus," she breathed, not sure if she said it or merely thought the word, until he looked up.

Hagrid followed after the brittle, battered gameskeeper like a dutiful little duckling, except "little" was not a use one would often use to describe the boy, who already towered over just about every person she'd ever met. She supposed he was lucky for the gamekeeper's conveniently timed retirement, though it was difficult to imagine any part of the present circumstance was "lucky". He at least had a few weeks to get a hang of what his future duties would be.

Upon spotting her, Hagrid's face immediately broke into a wide grin. Ophelia marvelled at how that was even possible. He was framed for murder. His wand had been snapped. What was there possibly left to smile about?

He waved a massive paw and she took it as an invitation. Not one to take risks, however, she asked the gamekeeper if she could borrow his charge, if only for a few minutes, first.

As soon as they were standing on the stone steps outside, away from prying eyes, she wrapped her arms around his much larger frame. "I'm sorry, Rubeus. I'm so sorry."

She kept repeating the words until they lost all meaning. Her whole body trembled with the force of his shaking, the tears he was trying and failing to contain.

"It wasn' Aragog," he mumbled into her hair. "He swore it wasn' him. He swore. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

Privately, Ophelia thought that wasn't the best analogy for a spider. Instead, she said, "I know."

"But- but the professors- they all said," a sob shot through him and rocked them both, "well, what else could it be? What'f he lied? What'f it's really me fault?"

She pulled back and waited until he was looking at her, his warm, beetle black eyes wet with tears. "Look at me. You know more about," horrible, "magical creatures than just about anybody. Could Aragog have killed someone without leaving a mark, even if he had snuck out of your cupboard? Could he petrify someone in a hall without anyone seeing him?"

He shook his head and wiped at his face with a sleeve.

"Believe in yourself. Don't feel guilty for something you know had nothing to do with you. You were just unlucky enough to get caught."

She had no idea where the confident words were coming from, because she certainly didn't feel any of it. Still, Hagrid needed to know he was innocent. It was the least she could do. She should have done more.

Residual tears continued to leak from his eyes, but rubbed them away again and when his face reappeared his forehead was wrinkled with concern. "If it wasn' Aragog, nobody's safe are they? Everybody thinks it's gone. Somebody'll be hurt again."

Ophelia patted his arm in what she hoped was a reassuring way. It felt weak. Wrong. "Don't worry, Rubeus."

She wasn't about to let that happen.

III

It only took two missed tries to get into the Chamber. Two wrong tries more than it should have, really, considering she'd heard Tom hiss the words at least four times in the past two weeks, but she'd long since accepted that her memory was an irredeemable mess, so she let the fact slide with an annoyed sigh.

The fact that her shoes padded silent as death upon the cold stone didn't matter much in the end, either, because when the doors slid open to reveal the final room with Salazar Slytherin's domineering statue it did not do so quietly. Stone grating upon stone flooded her ear drums and the chamber beyond, leaving any plans for utilising the element of surprise null and void.

The basilisk had to know she was there. If it didn't see her, it could smell her. If it couldn't smell her, it could hear her arrival.

So where was he? Why was the chamber so suspiciously empty?

Ophelia took three more light, hesitant steps into the chamber and, eyes low, scanned the ground from corner to corner. Nothing. Every subtle drip of water or patter of tiny paws pounded on her ears and still no sign of the beast that had caused so much devastation.

" _Appare Vestigium_." She mouthed the words, though didn't dare speak them aloud.

Ophelia blew softly on the tip of her wand and, as though a breeze had somehow swept through the chamber, gold dust sparkled from its point and floated languidly through the air in a slow moving wave, before taking the hollow shape of a great serpent.

Her gaze followed it, perplexed, as it moved up, up, higher and higher until—

She couldn't have rolled away a moment too soon. Her eyes had barely traces over the contours of a single scale before it clicked that, while she'd been intending to sneak down there and kill the beast with both it and Tom were none the wiser, this monster had enough presence of mind to think the same exact thing.

It smelled her coming and had set its own trap.

Seeing no point in keeping quiet any longer, she cursed loudly and colourfully as she dove to the side, the Basilisk landing, hissing and spitting, a mere hairsbreadth from her leg. So close she could feel it rustle the fabric on her pants.

The whole earth quaked at the tons upon tons of impact and the shockwave that shot up her legs made Ophelia's knees buckle. Broken shards of stone and tile fled through the air in every direction at the beast's unimaginable weight. But the sound... it should have been enough to wake the whole highlands. It was certainly enough to drown out her select choice in obscenities that would have left Dumbledore disappointed and her uncle proud in equal measure.

Knowing she wouldn't get a better shot than that and not daring to look to see where Basilisk's head was at, Ophelia held her wand directly to deep, forest green scales and uttered, " _Bombarda Maxima_!"

One second she kneeled there, wand to serpent, the next she was slamming into a wall the next room over, the room from whence she had just come. The impact took her breath away, but breathing seemed overrated in the face of a furious beast that could crush, poison, eat, or simply kill her outright with a passing glance. She was running as soon as she hit the ground, thanking the heavens that she had had enough presence of mind not to release her wand.

Darkness curled around the edges of her vision from the blow to her head, although, Ophelia considered with a great deal of ill-humour, it could have been a mixed blessing. If she couldn't see, it was one less way to die. And dying seemed like a more and more likely possibility.

No. Her grip around the smooth, polished surface of her wand tightened until her knuckles showed white. She hadn't ventured down here to be killed. Only to kill.

Aiming blindly from under the crook of her arm, she let out a muted, "Avis," and four sapphire and emerald bellied hummingbirds darted out her wand's ignited tip. They fluttered like a crown above the monster's head, poking and prodding and dancing with swift wings that moved too quick for the eye to follow. A crown fit for the king of serpents.

Still, it jerked away from them, swiping the air indiscriminately to be rid of the irritating creatures that buzzed about his vision. They were too agile, however, and were already gone a full second before the Basilisk even lunged. Something so big could never hope for the flexible movement of something so small, an advantage Ophelia shared.

Her distraction wouldn't last long; she knew that. She was the far more enticing prey, but the move gave her time to get her bearings. To find her balance and adjust to the new ringing in her ears. Most of all, it gave her a chance to scramble for her next move. If magic barely fazed it, if magic was merely deflected off of its thick hide, what was left? What was a witch without magic?

She brushed aside the thoughts. They wouldn't help her. She replaced them with images of Hagrid. Myrtle. Everyone this remorseless, merciless beast had harmed.

Perhaps if she bypassed its scales and went straight for its mouth or eyes. Never mind the fact that those two places were where anyone in their right mind would least like to be. Luckily, no one had ever accused her of being in her right mind.

She took a deep, bracing breath, held it, and ran.

Eyes were out of the question. To aim for the eyes would require actually looking at them, which, naturally, posed an immediate problem. The mouth, then. She just had to get him to open it.

"Hungry, are you?" It's head snapped in her direction, gauging the distance between them just as she had done. "Does Tom not feed his poor, baby Basilisk enough?"

She doubted it could understand the words, but they certainly got its attention. Dutifully, Ophelia kept her eyes trained just below its jawline, squinted just enough to close at a moment's notice.

It lunged, muscles contorting and stretching, pulled taut beneath the vivid, poisonous green scales. Ophelia fired fast and hard, any spell that came to mind. Her wand whipped and weaved and sent a constellation of sparks shattering through the air. At first, the flashing spellwork seemed to daze the creature, but not for long. It was too inherently magical to be affected for more than a couple of seconds, even when she managed to actually land direct shots onto its tongue. It shook off the blows like they were drops of water, ignoring the birds entirely, and continued its mad dash.

She backed away quickly, too rushed to calculate where to place her feet. Her ankle snagged on something small in her haste, causing her to topple back.

The basilisk was still coming. Ten feet. Five feet. She scrambled backwards on her hands, futilely kicking her feet in the beast's direction, as though that could help keep it away. Her shoe made contact with something— a nose?— but she didn't dare look. Desperately, she flung out her wand arm, intending to fire off some spell— any spell— though the closer it got the more her mind panicked, froze, drew horribly blank, until a searing pain snapped her back to reality. First, a single fang buried itself in her flesh. Then, the mighty jaws snapped shut around her arm, splintering the bone in two or perhaps two thousand different agonising pieces. Broken.

She screamed and the chamber screamed back a dozen times over using her own voice, the echo twisting and distorting with each repetition until it evolved into something else entirely. Something ghostly and haunting.

Suddenly, as the pain consumed her senses, she longed desperately for her uncle. She yearned for the only father figure she had ever known. He would save her if he were there. He could do anything. Better yet, he'd teach her how to save herself and then step back and watch proudly.

He'd keep her safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe. She couldn't remember how that felt anymore.

Grindelwald would know what to do. He always did. But he wasn't there. He wasn't even in Europe, she suspected. She was alone. All alone. Why had she thought it was a good idea to run away? He'd always been kind to her. He loved her. She'd been so stupid. She missed him so much and she'd never see him again. Her heart broke in half, and then fourths and eighths and sixteenths and again and again and again until she couldn't count all the jagged pieces. Until she couldn't hold them all in her hands and they shattered like glass on the floor, slick with her blood.

When the Basilisk was through, there wouldn't even be a body to mourn. Large as it was, she'd probably be swallowed whole. It was that troubling thought— and there were certainly plenty to choose from— that pushed Ophelia to bite down her agony and make a move. The idea of disappearing from the world, like she'd never existed in the first place, burned a hole through her gut. She spent so long trying to disappear before she even entered a room in the past, but she existed damn it! Tom, with all his faults, had made her feel like she could set the whole world on fire if she wanted to. The world would not forget. She would not disappear without a trace.

" _Incendio_ ," she hissed through gritted teeth

Close as she was, close enough to reach forth and pat the beast's snout with her other hand if she'd absolutely lost her mind, with her wand and arm within its mouth and poking the back of its throat, the single spell did the trick. The basilisk recoiled, releasing her.

Already, the poison slowed Ophelia's breathing. Her heartbeat lost its comfortingly constant rhythm she hadn't even known she noticed before.

While the serpent flailed furiously, she pushed herself up from the slippery stones with her uninjured arm and sprinted for the exit. Or tried to anyway. The ground seemed to shake unevenly, rising up and dropping away at random intervals. The wall provided some support, if only a little, but the blood on her palm left a trail of crimson across the wall. All she wanted to do was close her eyes for a second. One second and she'd be fine again.

She didn't really believe that. She didn't even feel the pain of the wound anymore. She was dying. Her thoughts were jumbled and distant, like another person was whispering from separate room. She didn't remember dragging herself out of the chamber, nor how she actually managed it. The only thing left in whole world was was a single word: _run_.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Okay, so I know some have been concerned with toms lack of interest in immortality so far and let me just say: it's all a part of the plan, my guy. Not to spoil but things are about to change verrryyy soon in that department. I've just been setting up the right... er... catalyst. I figured it would be odd if Tom was always like "You know what? I wanna live forever." I mean, I'm sure we've all had the thought in passing but I've never been more than slightly interested in the idea myself. Honestly, I'd find immortality quite miserable. I'd hate to outlive my dad and my brothers, so unless they were immortal too I'm not really a big fan tbh.**_

 _ **Also, I feel like I need to come clean here. Did you know. That snakes. Don't. Have. Eyelids? Because I sure as hell did NOT and I feel like one day a snake enthusiast is gonna call me out on it in two of my earlier chapters. It honestly never occurred to me that that was a thing I should look up and I've never been around snakes enough to notice. Two of my (absolutely bonkers) friends have boas but I honestly didn't realise. They were weirdly soft.**_


	18. XVIII

Tom rounded the corner, moving faster at the sound of muffled, ear-grating laughter. He wasn't sure if he'd care normally— nothing was inherently wrong with laughter— but his gut told him something was wrong. Very wrong. The feeling had been growing in the pit of his stomach all morning and needling at the back of his mind, though he couldn't for the life of him he couldn't pinpoint the source.

He slammed open the door to the woman's lavatory, not caring about what it looked like to passerby's.

"There you are," he breathed.

Ophelia looked up in alarm, her hair disheveled and silent tears snaking their way down her face, as though she didn't even know they were there. She lurched back from where she'd been huddled on the ground at the base of the sink, but seemed to slip, and collapsed sideways. She didn't get back up.

It was obvious what she'd slipped on and it wasn't water, despite a certain ghost's very best efforts to flood the whole floor. Blood.

Tom crossed the room in a few short strides, ditching his bag somewhere along the way.

"Go away, Tom," she muttered wearily, the few words seeming to take all her energy. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm still... avoiding you."

"What have you done?" he demanded, looking around wildly for the source of the blood, for any wound that could explain it.

"Oh, I'd check her arm," Myrtle contributed with a giggle, floating dreamily out of a stall behind him.

Although Tom didn't acknowledge her gleeful taunts, he slid back the sleeves of Ophelia's robes, ignoring her weak attempts to bat him away. The torn fabric stuck like still-wet glue to her skin and so much blood covered the actual wound he almost missed the fact that there wasn't just one puncture but two. He flipped it over to examine the other side— probably a bit too roughly in his growing panic, because she flinched— and found another matching wound going the opposite direction. Furthermore, just above them, in the few spots that weren't coated with blood, the skin bloomed into a kaleidoscope of blues and purples, greens and yellows.

She inhaled sharply through her nose. "Could you not?"

He got the impression she was going for annoyed, or even sarcastic, but the fight just wasn't there.

"Who?" he heard himself ask. It wasn't the time for it- he was wasting precious seconds- but he needed to know. "Who did this to you?"

The anger rising in his chest was both simultaneously quashed and multiplied when Myrtle giggled again. "I found her like this, all alone. It was absolutely _dreadful_."

"OUT!" he snarled. "GET OUT!"

Splashing from one of the stalls alerted him to the ghosts departure, but he didn't look away from Ophelia. He couldn't.

He didn't know what to do. She was bleeding out too fast, turning the area around them where Myrtle had flipped on all the faucets a deep shade of pink.

"Go away, Tom," Ophelia repeated, softer than before. "There's nothing you can do. Even you... cannot fight death."

"Open your eyes," he ordered, shaking her harder. She needed to get to the nurse immediately, before she lost too much blood. If she hadn't already. "Stop talking nonsense and tell me who did this!"

"I can't do it anymore, Tom," she whispered, not paying him any heed. "I tried, but I can't."

"Can't what?" he asked desperately, as he pulled her into his arms, one arm under her knees, the other at mid-back and tried to stand up.

She fought him weakly, finally wriggling out of his grip.

"I chose _you_ over Myrtle, a girl you'd accidentally got murdered and we both knew it, I chose _you_ over Hagrid, a child with no one else to protect him, and let him take the blame for a death he had no part in. I chose _you_ , and I can't live with myself." Her voice hitched at random points as she struggled to breath, yet she plowed on. "I can't keep lying for you, but I'm also too much a coward to turn you in. I can't live like this... I can't live like this, and it's all my fault..."

"None of it is your fault. _Nothing_."

Her eyes flickered back shut.

"Ophelia?"

She didn't stir.

" _Wake up_!"

Her body that he'd pulled tightly to his chest felt far too limp. A lifelike doll.

He screamed her name again. Ordered. Demanded. Pleaded. Nothing. The shouted words echoed throughout the cavernous room, bounced on the walls down the corridor, until they finally drew the attention of professors, ghosts, and students alike.

Eventually, someone ripped Tom away, forcing him to land on his elbows in the blood stained water. He'd never been so thrilled to see Professor Dumbledore in his life, even when he'd appeared in the doorstep of Wool's Orphanage all those years prior. This was a different type of joy, however, closer perhaps to hope.

He scarcely noticed someone else dragging him to his feet by the arm and couldn't have named the person responsible. They were unimportant. All that mattered was if Ophelia would be alright. Shouts rang out all around him, but they seemed distant as he watched Dumbledore run his wand along her arms. Her skin weaved itself back together beneath the professor's watchful gaze one second, only to come back apart just as quickly in the next.

"She losing too much blood," the deputy headmaster said evenly to no one in particular, conjuring up a stretcher. Despite his calm tone, his eyes remained sharp and his movements quickened. "We need to get her to the the Hospital Wing immediately for a blood replenishment potion. I don't know what manner of wounds these are, but they're rejecting my magic."

As Tom made to follow them out, Dumbledore held out a weathered hand to stop him.

Piercing him over his half moon spectacles, he said, "Not you, Tom. I would like a word in my office about this."

Immediately, any fleeting gratitude he felt for the old wizard vanished.

"You can't make me go anywhere, Dumbledore," he stated, eyes narrowed into slits.

He made to push past, but Dumbledore held firm.

"It's Professor Dumbledore, Tom," he said with frustrating calm. "I can assure you, Miss Ashwood will receive the best care available. There is nothing more you can do for her. What we need from you is to get a grasp on what has happened if the nurse is to know how to treat her."

 _There is nothing more you can do for her_. In other words, "You'll only get in the way."

The words rang dangerously close to how he himself felt. It only fed into his anger, however, begging him to lash out, to wipe that pitying look off of Dumbledore's wrinkled face.

"If anything happens and I'm not there..." he trailed off, not sure how to follow up what was beginning to sound like a threat.

Fortunately, they were interrupted.

"Dreadful business, Albus," Slughorn wheezed, striding quickly down the hall from the opposite direction Ophelia's stretcher had gone.

Tom hadn't even noticed it depart.

Dumbledore had succeeded in distracting him, at least, as was no doubt his intention.

" _No_!" he snarled, lunging past them. " _Ophelia_!"

"No, Tom." Dumbledore said, pulling him back with surprising strength for such an old man. "You will know as soon as anything happens, but for now you must partake of the most difficult task imaginable: you must wait."

Without further ado or a backwards glance, he hurried down the hall, robes fanning out fluidly behind him, leaving Tom feeling like a lone stone caught between conflicting currents, unable to move even if he wanted to.

Those wounds... No nurse could heal that. No amount of blood replenishment could counteract the venom pumping through her veins. There was no cure for a Basilisk bite, and Tom had no doubt that's what it was. What else would have bled so profusely and refused to heal when Dumbledore— even Dumbledore himself— tried to heal her? Added with the location he'd found her in and her incriminating words and Tom was certain he'd have realised sooner had he not completely lost his head.

 _I chose you, and I can't live with myself for it._

The sound of her voice crept softly through his mind, whispering, numbing, and turning the world dull grey.

She had been a fool for sneaking into the Chamber, and even more so for thinking she could kill the Basilisk by herself. All she'd achieved was getting herself killed- and for what?

Gradually, the professors and students trickled away, even Slughorn, when they accepted that Tom could scarcely hear them, let alone be coerced to follow. He became a new statue to add to the school's already impressive collection.

Blood stained his hands. It trickled down his fingers and dripped to the rippling water around him. One drop. Another. And another. Her blood. Her. She was gone. She coated his fingers as a second skin. Her veins drained across his robes and onto the floor. And she was gone.

Gone.

Not caring for the consequences, a deafening silence ringing through his mind, he reopened the chamber. In truth, it was more than silence. It was simple absence. Absence of light, noise, thought, and especially emotion. In a deadly calm, far more lethal than any rage he could have mustered, he made his way to the main antechamber where the Basilisk waited.

" _How dare you_?" he snarled in Parseltongue.

" _How dare I? That creature came down here to kill me_ ," It hissed back, slithering closer and rising to its full, impressive height.

 _"I pulled you from the throes of a centuries long sleep and you disobeyed me. You disobeyed me, so now you shall sleep again_."

 _"You dare presume to force me back into that existence? Me_?"

 _"I gave you two orders: don't hurt the girl, and stop attacking students. I could overlook the second, believe it was an accident, but the second?"_ Tom looked up coldly. " _Be grateful I don't kill you while you slumber on, defenseless for years to come_."

The basilisk reeled back, fifty feet of curling scales and contracting muscle. To any other, it would have been a heart-stopping sight. Tom didn't so much as blink, so cold was his fury and true was his conviction, and when the beast lunged, his voice was as detached and hard as granite.

" _Sleep_."

The effect was immediate. A flipped switch, one second, it was flying forward with a murderous, singleminded focus, and the next, it was falling, all momentum lost. At last, it's diamond-shaped head skidded to a thunderous halt at Tom's feet, who spared the creature one last look of contempt that didn't quite fit the carved beauty of his features. He turned away, not bothering further with the beast that had the whole chamber trembling with the weight of its unconscious breath. He didn't turn back.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Fun fact: this was the first chapter I wrote for this book, but the original draft was far darker. In the end, as I wrote the book and got attached to the characters I decided I'm not quite as cruel as I was planning to be. Ultimately, I only had to change I couple of paragraphs to completely alter the entire thing though, so the brunt of it is the same. I suppose that's more of a not-so-fun fact huh?_**

 ** _To be continued... whenever I get around to writing the next chapter I guess. Be grateful I didn't go through with the original plan though. It was mega-yikes._**


	19. XIX

Ophelia wove fluidly in and out of consciousness. To fall asleep would be so painfully, so blissfully easy. It would be the warm embrace of a mother who actually loved her, the joyous laugh of a father who didn't have his life cut short criminally young. It would be comfort and then nothing at all.

Something about that felt off. Unreal. The concept of peace just seemed so entirely foreign that it propelled her to open her eyes again and again, even as what she actually saw grew dark and it felt like she was falling and falling and falling to a bottom that always remained just out of reach. Chaos was a grudging friend; peace, an unknowable stranger.

At times, she could hear angry, frantic, desperate shouts, but then at random the whole world would fade away until she wondered if she'd gone deaf, or if, perhaps, she was already dead and merely imagined the noise.

"Albus— Oh, thank heavens you're here. I've tried everything— blood replenishment, my strongest healing charms, even resorted to muggle stitches, barbaric as they are— nothing worked!" The school nurse continued breathlessly, "And even if they miraculously did, I fear the wound is poisoned. I haven't enough time to concoct all the potions necessary to identify and nullify the correct one."

 _Am I going to die?_

There was a rush of movement and then a hand bit into her shoulder. "You are not going to die if you tell us what did this. There is no time to waste."

Ophelia hadn't even realised she'd spoken aloud. She wished he'd let go.

"What... did this?" her mouth formed the words but she wasn't sure if any noise actually moved past her throat.

The fingers dug deeper. "Quickly."

She opened her mouth again. _Basilisk_. That wouldn't be so hard to say. _Basilisk_. Just a single word.

And still she couldn't do it. She could never explain away being bitten by a Basilisk, not when they'd been extinct from Britain for several hundred years.

" _You see, Dumbledore, I was in the_ _bathroom when one leapt right out of the toilet. It was a wild time. You would have to have been there_."

Something told her he probably wouldn't believe it, which left only the truth. The truth she would never tell. He couldn't know she was a liar; not after all he'd already done for her. To feel indebted to someone is a curious thing. She knew she'd repaid his good faith with deceit. He didn't, however, and she couldn't bear to be the object of his disappointment. Even in her own head it sounded pathetic. What a stupid reason to die. The entire situation was unbelievable.

She settled on a near inaudible, "Thank you."

As far as last words went, they weren't so bad. She'd never be able to say everything.

 _Thank you for believing in me. For believing I could be better when no one else did. For searching out a scared child when the whole world hunted her like an animal. For offering her a new home. For pushing her to make friends even if the idea of rejection scared her almost as much as being alone. For guiding her to Tom. Me. Thank you for guiding me to Tom, even if that was never your intention. Thank you._

A new weight pressed down on her chest just as a swath of brilliant crimson blurred across her unfocused vision. She couldn't breathe. The effort was too monumental. The last of the air in her lungs slipped out between barely parted lips until nothing was left.

Ophelia's heart fought on. It beat. Beat.

Beat.

Stopped.

But the pain didn't. Where it should have vanished entirely, it spread up her arms, across her chest, down to the tip of her toes.

And dissipated.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Her vision cleared, the encroaching fog lifted to reveal a beautiful crimson and gold plumage, and at last the pressure over her heart vanished as the bird fluttered off into Dumbledore's arms.

"Thank you, too, Fawkes, most of all."

III

The Headmaster arrived, as was characteristic, too late to do anything. He wanted answers, though. They all did, so it wasn't hard to imagine how tense things got when it became clear Ophelia had no intention of offering any explanation. They talked. They kept on talking. They wouldn't shut up.

"Would you at least look at us when we're speaking to you?" Professor Dippet asked, exasperated.

She tore her eyes away from the door, away from any fanciful daydreams she had about escaping through it to avoid the conversation she was currently having. Really, it was more an interrogation than anything.

She gave him a bland, _Are you happy now?_ look, but didn't say a word.

Laughter sounded down the corridor outside the Hospital Wing and, despite herself, her longing gaze drifted back towards the wide open doors. Snippets of Slytherin green trickled past steadily. It took her moment to realise she recognised a handful of the faces: Fenella, Avery... so carefree. They probably didn't hear anything happened, or perhaps they did and simply didn't care. Ophelia's heart fell when she noticed Tom wasn't with them, and then she was immediately irritated for feeling that way.

By chance, as Rabastan flowed past just a step behind the others, he looked inside, eyes catching on her. He paused, a slight frown curving on his lips as he took in her company and the fact that she was restricted to one of many hospital beds that littered the room.

 _Help_ , Ophelia mouthed hopefully, only for those hopes to be promptly dashed as he turned around, away from the rest of his group, and stalked off.

Well, that had been a long shot to begin with.

She sighed.

"You said Tom Riddle found her, Albus? Where is he? Perhaps he could shed some light."

"He did," Dumbledore conceded with brief tilt of his head. "Unfortunately, I haven't been able to locate Mister Riddle since, however. I asked him to await me in my office, but he never showed."

"That's quite unlike the boy," Dippet said with a frown.

Ophelia could have laughed at that assessment. That sounded _exactly_ like Tom. Always where you didn't want him and never there when needed.

Instead, she leaned back onto her pillow and stared at the ceiling, letting them talk over her. Abruptly, she became acutely aware that they'd talked speaking and indeed appeared to be awaiting some sort of answer.

Grudgingly, she cleared her throat. "Yes?"

The Headmaster went paler than Nearly Headless Nick and nearly as translucent. "That's— that's impossible. We caught the beast, chased it from the grounds—"

Ophelia got the distinct impression she'd missed an integral part of the conversation. "Wait, no— not yes as in an affirmative, yes as in would you please repeat the question."

"I'm sure you at least understand why we need to know if this is connected at all to the other recent attacks," Dumbledore intervened smoothly, patting her leg through the thin blankets.

The thought had occurred to her.

"I told you that keeping that child on the grounds was a terrible idea, Albus," the Headmaster said, lowering his voice am octave, as though that would actually prevent Ophelia from overhearing.

The ill feeling in her gut intensified. She asked, "What child?" despite knowing full well who they were talking about.

The Headmaster seemed loathe to say it, but Dumbledore had no such qualms. "Rubeus Hagrid."

Ever since her heart stopped, it felt like it seemed intent on working twice as hard to make up on lost time, to make up for failing once. Ophelia's pulse spiked, reacting to her panic, and her breathing escalated proportionately.

"Rubeus didn't do anything!" She grabbed Professor Dippet's robes and forcibly yanked him closer. He startled, and Fawkes, cooing indignantly at the disrupted serenity, glided out of an open window. Lucky bird. Jumping out the window was looking increasingly tempting with the panic that was expanding like a bubble in Ophelia's chest. " _Nothing_! This has nothing to do with him! Do you hear me?"

She moved to get up, but Dumbledore pressed her back into the bed.

"How can we be sure if we don't even know what happened? Your wounds– they were unnatural, and without an idea of what did it, I'm afraid—"

"I did it!" she exclaimed desperately. The room went silent, and she continued more quietly, "I did it to myself. Are you happy? Rubeus had nothing to do with it."

III

The fifth year Slytherin boy's dormitory had seen better days: curtains were ripped from windows, sheets, blankets, and pillows strewn across the room, down fluttered softly through the air like snow. Tom's trunk laid upturned on his now barren bed, it's contents spilled haphazardly across the floor. _A History of Magic_ and _Advanced Potion-making_ missed several pages each, shredded into confetti-sized bits and littering the floor beside the glass and feathers.

He picked up one of the few items that somehow survived his purge— a crystal decanter now mostly empty of the firewhisky Avery managed to sneak from home— and watched it shatter against the wall, amber liquid and glass shards flying in every direction. Breathing heavily, he looked for something else— anything else— to break into a thousand satisfying pieces.

The mess didn't matter. Magic could fix it all in a fraction of the time it took him to break it.

 _Not all_.

Tom buried the intrusive thought under a fresh wave anger. Anger was good. If not for anger, he'd be overcome by that other feeling, and he wouldn't let it come to that.

Fury at least had purpose and a cure. That other emotion provided nothing except pain and suffering. So why didn't he feel better yet? The basilisk, the source of his problems, was dealt with.

Why, then, did he still want to raze the whole castle, the whole country, to the ground?

His fingers dug into the cover of an old notebook, gripping the edges to rip it apart when he distantly realised it was his diary. Pages upon pages of notes filled its space, varying from useless thoughts that happened to cross his mind to painfully detailed descriptions of enchantments that didn't quite fit into Hogwarts' carefully curated curriculum. In a coincidence that felt more like fate than chance, the spot where the diary split in half, where he gripped one cover in one hand and the other with his remaining one, intending to tear the whole thing apart, was his record of a rather particular branch of magic.

Horcruxes.

Tom took up slow, retreating steps until the back of his legs collided with one of four-poster beds and his knees buckled. Sinking into the bare mattress, he let his head drop into his hands and the diary slip out of his fingers to fall back onto the rug with a nearly silent thud.

This was Ophelia's fault. All of it. Going into the Chamber without him was suicide and she must have known that. She must have. How could she not?

Against his best efforts, Tom couldn't fight off the encroaching bitterness. That unfamiliar feeling of someone reaching their hand into his chest and crushing his heart within their fist. He wished they'd finish he job and rip it out already.

 _Why her? Why her? Why her? Why her? Why her? Why her? Why her? Why her? Why her? Why—_

Abruptly, his anger rekindled with new direction.

 _"I forbid you from going any further_ ," she'd said. " _I like your soul just the way it is_..."

And like a blinded fool, he swore he wouldn't. But what good were promises to a dead girl? If she wasn't going to stick around to keep her end of the bargain, neither would he. Had she only listened to him, had he only pressed his argument instead of getting distracted, they would both virtually immortal and she... well, she wouldn't be dead.

He wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He would never die.

III

It was agony, the type of pain so unimaginable that it made the word lose meaning. For a moment, Tom forgot everything, even how to breathe. Only when his knees collided with the ground and black spots danced across his vision did he make a conscious effort to force oxygen into his lungs. Inhale. Exhale. His breaths came in laboured gasps, his skin was feverish to the touch, yet he felt ice cold.

The only warmth left in the universe was on the pads of his fingers where they grazed along the cover of his diary, the two pieces of his soul calling to each other, yearning to reunite.

Tom flung the thing away, before doubling over as a new inferno of pain erupted across his entire body. He wasn't sure he could scream if he wanted to. The longer he waited, however, the less he felt. Less pain, less despair, less everything, and so much more nothing in their place. Despite the agony of ripping his soul in two, it came as almost a relief.

Heavy steps pounded down the stairs leading from the common room. Tom waited for them to pass, only they didn't. The door slammed open.

"I've been looking everywhere— oh." Rabastan blinked from the doorway, taking in the destruction. "Wow, Tom. I love what you've done with the place."

Tom dragged himself up to his feet, despite his trembling arms and legs that felt like jelly. Hopefully Rabastan was too preoccupied with the rest of the disaster to notice. "I really haven't the patience for your nonsense today, less so than usual. Leave."

Rabastan crossed his arms, but didn't otherwise move. "Pretending I'm not offended, I still think you have enough patience to care about what I have to say."

"I guarantee you, I care about very little right now, least of all what you have to say," Tom replied dully, leaning heavily against the wall with one arm.

Rabastan breathed out an exasperated sigh and tossed his hands into the air by his head. "Let the record show I tried. When you come at me tomorrow, yelling, probably ready to boss me around, I'd like you to think back on this exact moment."

"Get out." Tom closed his eyes, as if the loss of visual sensory information would also block the unwelcome auditory intrusion. "Get out before I do something I won't regret, although you might."

"Always violence with you. Fine, I'm gone, your lordliness. Forever at your eternal service, o' benevolent dictator. I do nothing in life without thinking of your highest comfort, my authoritarian friend." Tom sincerely wished he had actually gone deaf as Rabastan geared up to continue. "I suppose, even though it doesn't suit my carefully curated image as a perfect angel, I'll just have to politely ask Peeves to destroy a wing of the castle so I can liberate my dearest imprisoned Ophelia from the chains that bind her to the hospital wing."

"Stop talking about things ty know nothing about." The remaining untouched lamp on his side table flickered, casting dark, unflattering shadows sharply across his face. His fists, bone white and clenched, shook with something akin to, but not quite, anger. "And don't say that name again if you fancy speaking again in the near future."

Rabastan, who'd only just been in the process of leaving, paused in the threshold and half-turned back to get a good look at Tom. Whatever he saw produced a spark of anxiety searing enough that Tom could practically taste it, despite that fact that he hadn't been actively employing his Legilimency. Rabastan's voice was surprisingly light when he again spoke.

"So testy today."

"Only because you are testing my patience."

"Have a falling out with our favourite Gryffindor that I should be aware of? I can guarantee it would make Fenella's decade if you did."

Tom was well aware of how Rabastan heeded his threat and carefully avoided using her name.

His words came out like chips of ice. "She's dead."

Rabastan tilted his head and his doubt was obvious. His voice remained infuriatingly neutral as he asked, "Did you kill her recently?"

Tom's nails bit even further into his palms and the void in his chest that felt so comfortingly empty mere moments before began to fill with the echos of something ugly. "Of course not."

"Well, she seemed incredibly not deceased when I saw her like twenty minutes ago, so unless Fen has had her way since I came to look for you—"

"That's impossible."

"Then the headmaster is interrogating a very colourful ghost upstairs. And," he gave Tom a brief once over, "I feel morally obligated to ask: where did all the blood come from? Should I be concerned?"

The world seemed to crack and distort around the edges. "That's impossible," Tom repeated, quieter, more to himself than anyone else. "It can't be."

Without even realising it, he shoved Rabastan out of the way and flew up the stairs two at a time, diary forgotten on the floor.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **In case it wasn't clear in the beginning of chapter 16 when I briefly touched upon it, Ophelia would have heard Tom open the chamber a few times when they entered it together. Once for the sink to open, once for the inner door, two times in total.**_

 _ **Yes, I know it was a bit of a cop out to not show him physically going through the motions to make a horcrux, but there is a very simple explanation for that: this chapter is already so long and I didn't want to. I didn't want to make some bs incantation and ritual, nor did I particularly like the more prominent theories on how to make them, like cannibalism. Ew. Also, at his point, I just wanted the chapter over with tbh. I've been agonising over the same infernal 200 words for like five days**_


	20. XX

Ophelia was beginning to get genuinely annoyed. "What do you care why I did what I did? My motives are hardly the point here."

Really, she'd have imagined the professor's would be overjoyed at the (mis)information that no beast's were still roaming the halls and preying on students. Never mind that it was an utter lie.

"I, for one, would like to know how you managed to injure yourself so gravely that not even our wonderfully talented nurse could remedy it." Dumbledore's tone was thoughtful, but his expression remained calculating.

"Casual spell misfire," Ophelia replied simply.

It was a weak argument, admittedly, except Albus Dumbledore wasn't the wizard she needed to convince. So long as Armando Dippet desperately wanted this little nightmare over with and nicely covered up, he'd be willing to believe anything that wasn't the truth, which suited Ophelia just fine.

"And the spell?" Dumbledore pressed.

"Just a little something I was working on. Obviously, it didn't work out." She sighed theatrically. "Back to the old drawing board."

"It wasn't an approved spell?" Dippet sounded disapproving and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"You caught me. That's why I didn't want to say in the first place." Dumbledore seemed liable to keep prodding at the bundle of growing lies until they unraveled, so she quickly added, "Look, there was nothing else in the bathroom. Right, Tom?"

Jus as she finished the sentence, Tom, who'd only just strode breathlessly into the room, locked his eyes with hers. Although she was certain he had absolutely no context as to what he was agreeing to and likely hadn't heard more than the last two words, he tore his gaze away and turned to the Headmaster.

"Right. It is just as she says."

It was almost troubling how well he could deceive his way through any encounter. He was truly a master at his craft. She wondered if he realized that it was his words that were his most powerful weapon, not his wand.

Ophelia forced her expression to remain unperturbed as she took him in.

"You heard them, Albus. This was all just a big misunderstanding," Dippet said, clasping his hands together and finding his way to his feet. "No need to cause a fuss. No need whatsoever. Let's leave her to regain her strength." She tried not to be too offended. It wasn't like she was some porcelain doll. The phoenix tears really did work wonders. "I actually have a few ideas I wanted to run through with you for the end of term feast..."

His voice trailed off as he turned the corner out of the hospital wing, leading a begrudging Dumbledore, who unceasingly watched Ophelia with his sharp blue eyes until he was out of view. She couldn't help but fidget uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

After they were gone, the air felt less heavy, and Ophelia, satisfied in her temporary victory, allowed herself a moment to reassemble. Impossibly rapid frames of her morning— the basilisk lunging, jaws snapping, bones breaking— played in the darkness of her eyelids. She locked them all away in the far corners of her mind, where they didn't seem quite so daunting, and forced herself to think forward.

"How?" Tom asked, the single word sounding more like a demand than a question. She hadn't even heard him walk to her bedside.

"You'll have to be more specific," she said, rubbing circles on her temple. What she saw when she at least looked at him made worry lines crease in between her brows. He'd probably never been in more disrepair, but that part seemed almost inconsequential compared to his expression. "Are you ill?"

"Do I look ill?" he asked queerly, and Ophelia couldn't begin to decipher his expression.

She shrugged, discomfited. "You look like you belong here more than I do."

"Ah, yes. _That_." He smiled at her then, only the slight curving of the lips, the same way a cat might smile at a cornered mouse, and she didn't feel at all comforted. "Tell me, how did you do it?" He leaned forward and his voice dropped down to a whisper. "We both know you should be dead."

"You could at least pretend to be a little more broken up about it." She folded her arms, pretending to be cross. "Really, I wouldn't mind a few tears." When he didn't relent she sat up straight and peered sternly at him like their professors were ought to do mid-lecture. "If you're so smart, you tell me, Mister Riddle."

"That's _enough_." He leaned closer, dangerously close, and Ophelia had to fight the urge to sink further into her pillows. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a tactical retreat. "You almost died a meaningless death— no person but myself would even know how or where— so I don't see what you find so amusing," he spat.

"To be fair," she said, reduced almost to a whisper herself, "you don't have much of a sense of humour."

"To be fair," he copied her tone, "you can't seem to answer a simple question."

She'd already prepared another taunting retort— solely because she enjoyed testing his blood pressure, but something held it back. Perhaps it was because she looked at him— really, truly looked— and saw things she couldn't explain, from a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers where they dug into bed, to the dark moons forming under his dark eyes, accentuated by the fraught light. Instead, she shrugged. "Fawkes."

"The phoenix?" His shoulders slumped and he lowered to the floor, on his knees, long fingers still entwined in the coarse white sheets, like he was fighting off the urge to tear them apart.

"How many other Fawkes' do you know?"

"I should have thought of that myself," he cursed, more to himself than anyone else. "Phoenix tears. Of course." He muttered another muted curse, more foul than the last. "As always, your precious Dumbledore comes in to save the day."

She raised a brow at his petulant attitude, and jokingly said, "It's not like it was his tears that have healing properties. Anyway, you do remember the last time you badmouthed Dumbledore, right? Or should I hit you again to remind you?"

"How could I forget," he uttered, not falling for the bait. "No one's ever had the nerve to slap me before."

He stared distantly out the window, probably remembering, wondering how they got so far from that brief encounter.

"Get up, Tom." He didn't move, didn't so much as look up, so Ophelia tried again. "Come on, please?"

This time he did spare her a glance— an irritated one that said plainly, who do you think are to order me around?— but rose unsteadily to his feet anyway.

"Happy?" he glowered.

"Almost." Readjusting herself so that she only took up half as much space, she patted the free patch of bed and blankets, and demanded pointedly, "Sit."

Tom watched her suspiciously, as though she thought her motives less than pure. "No."

"Don't be dramatic. I'm not about to steal your virtue or anything."

"Why."

Ophelia spoke to the ceiling in a _Merlin would you believe this guy_ sort of tone. "You look liable to fall over any second, so stuff your absurd pride and sit down."

At the last word, she lunged forward with every intention of latching onto his arm and dragging him over. What actually happened was this: she underestimated the distance, overestimated her balance and current strength, and began to fall over the side of the bed without completing her goal.

Tom, realising what was about to happen even before she came to the conclusion herself, stepped forward warily. "Hold on, don't—"

Too late; she was already rushing to meet the floor, forcing Tom to bridge the gap in a rush to prevent her crashing to the ground face-first. Gripping her shoulders, he sighed, "You're a greater danger to yourself than your uncle ever was."

Before he knew what she was up to, he was the one falling, being pulled down next to Ophelia, until they were side-by-side. She laughed, "All is well that ends well."

"I refuse to believe you planned it this way," he said, a hint of defeat in his voice.

"Believe what you want," she said dismissively. "I still got my way. You lost. And," Ophelia squirmed further away, pushing the blankets from herself to him, "Why are you so cold?"

He stiffened, but only for a passing second. "I can't control the weather."

"It's not the weather. It's you. You're like ice. Maybe I should ask the nurse to brew a Pepper-Up Potion after all."

"You're fussing. Stop," he ordered sternly, batting away her attempts at suffocating him in a comical amount of blankets and sheets. Ophelia got the feeling he wasn't actually annoyed and rather, deep down— very deep, mind you—enjoyed the fussing, and even if he didn't, she enjoyed finding exactly where his last nerve was, so it was a win-win. "You're awful excitable for someone who nearly died only hours ago."

"Key word here being almost."

"You still shouldn't have gone down in—" he paused, checking for eavesdroppers "—down there all alone."

"And would you have agreed to stop the creature with me?" Ophelia asked, waiting for an answer and entirely unsurprised when he stayed silent. She smiled grimly, satisfied. "That's exactly what I thought. I'll need to rethink my plan, since I think we can both objectively say my last attempt was a failure."

Tom looked incredulous, shaking his head. "Don't waste your time. I already took care of it."

Ophelia wasn't sure if she heard correctly. "You took care of what?"

"Our rather large problem," he said darkly.

"You— you killed it?" she hissed, so low that even if the nurse had been standing a foot away with her ear poised to overhear she wouldn't have been able to discern a single word.

"No," he said tritely. "I put him to sleep."

Ophelia leaned back against the metal headboard, it's sharp edges digging into her back. "Huh."

Tom leaned back, too, to search her expression. "I must say, I expected a little more than just 'huh'."

"Are you sure you actually did it? This isn't just some lie so that you can carry on with your nefarious schemes?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't _scheme_."

"Okay, now that's a lie."

"I plan. I use what I learn to my advantage. There's a difference."

"Look how well you lie to yourself, too. Remarkable."

"I do not—"

Just then, Rabastan strode through the open doors, confident and with a blatantly unrepentant grin. "This is cute. Am I interrupting a moment? I feel like I'm interrupting. Well, too bad, because we," he drew triangle between them with his hand," have plans."

Both pairs of eyes immediately snapped in his direction, but neither made to move. Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

"We do?" Ophelia asked, skeptical.

"We do," Rabastan confirmed sagely. "And if you two don't hurry up, we'll miss our chance."

He tugged the sleeve of her robes and dragged her from the bed. She looked back at Tom, who merely seemed resigned and rose to his feet with far more grace than her stumbling fall. In the corridor just outside the hospital wing, Rabastan peered around corners before guiding them along, checking if the coast was clear.

Ophelia shrugged herself out of his grasp. "Wait! Where are we going?"

"This is a kidnapping. You don't get to know," he retorted, shushing her and looking frantically around to make sure her raised voice hadn't attracted the wrong sort of attention.

"I at least need my wand." She patted her empty pockets, as though expecting it would be there. Of course, it wasn't. To herself, she wondered, more frantic, "Where's my wand?"

She hadn't left it in the chamber, had she? The bathroom? Had it fallen somewhere as they dragged her to the nurse?

"Here." She turned and Tom dropped the polished vermillion redwood inti her palm before she was entirely ready to catch it. "Though... I recommend you wash it."

Unbidden, an image of her wand— and by extension her hand— throat deep in the Basilisk's yawning mouth flashed across her vision. She fought the urge to fling it away, just imagining all the Basilisk juice and blood coating it's seemingly glossy surface. Only when she noticed Tom's self-satisfied smirk did she curl her fingers around its hilt and pocket it.

"We both know I wouldn't have touched it without cleaning it first," he amended. "But I did rather enjoy your look of disgust."

 _Oh, I'll show you a look of disgust_ , she thought, rolling up her sleeves in what she hoped was a threatening fashion.

It wasn't.

Tom raised a single, lazy finger to his lips and stepped around her, around Rabastan, too, so that he was leading. They crept carefully through the corridors, moving at his discretion and pulling back whenever someone spotted a member of staff. The clandestine nature of their creeping really made Ophelia begin to question her own judgement in following, especially considering all the chaos the day had already brought. But she continued on, curiosity piqued. Really, doing something foolish didn't feel quite so bad at the moment. The idea of a distraction was liberating, so she didn't fall short when they eventually joined up with a much larger assembly of Slytherins in front of the statue of the egg-shaped Gregory the Smarmy.

"What are you waiting around for? What if you're all seen?" Tom barked.

"We decided to wait until I brought you here," Rabastan said, feeling blindly around the base of the sculpture until he grazed something Ophelia couldn't see and pulled.

The statue slid forward just enough to provide a thin gap, barely wide enough for a single person to slip through. The inside must have been larger than it first appeared, however, because at least five others sidled through before Tom took Ophelia's hand and guided her in. The chilly temperature of his skin that she had noted not that much earlier seemed to smother her own warmth.

The hole, it turned out, was less a room than it was a tunnel. After about a half hour of walking, avoiding the scuffles of the others ahead playfully shoving each other around in the dark, Ophelia trailed to a stop.

"This... er... we aren't..." she struggled to find the words as a dawning comprehension flushed her brief shot of reckless courage from her bloodstream. "We aren't within Hogwarts anymore." It wasn't a question. She could feel it in her bones, as though there had been a tangible shift in the air. She hadn't left the castle grounds since she arrived in her third year and the thought of being elsewhere was both thrilling and terrifying. Ophelia couldn't meet his eyes as she said, "You know I can't go, Tom."

Out of her periphery, she saw him run a hand through his hair and look towards the others growing further ahead, gauging how much they could hear. "It's only Hogsmeade. We sneak off each year as a sort of tradition. We've never been caught and nothing bad has ever happened, outside of Avery being chased from the Hogshead with a broom." He continued, softer, when she didn't speak or move, "Nothing will happen. I swear."

"You can't promise that."

"Stay close by and I do."

"Oi! What's the hold up back there?" Rabastan called back, a distant glimmer of light indicating the rest of them had reached the exit.

"Will you let your fear rule you?" Tom challenged. "What happened to your brave words about not needing a protector? Maybe you haven't grown out of that terrified child running from her problems after all."

It was a low blow; he must have known it, but it steeled her resolve enough to ignore the foreboding pooling in her stomach and take a fresh look at the world for the first time in years.

She _had_ grown, didn't he see? Sometimes she barely even recognised herself anymore. Sometimes, she wasn't sure if she actually wanted to.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **There was a bit of a wait for this chapter. My bad. These last two weeks have been hectic. In retrospect I should probably wait until I get more than an hour of sleep to edit and post this BUT I just wanna check it off of my list of things to do at this point. There's only 13 more chapters left, if things go according to plan, though. Almost there.**_


	21. XXI

Even the sun felt different under a free sky. It was preposterous, of course, since Hogsmeade was hardly a world away from Hogwarts— barely more than a handful of miles— but Ophelia still couldn't help close her eyes and tilt her head to embrace it. It's soft, warm fingers ran down her arms and the wind tugged at her hair like an old friend.

She never wanted to move again.

A hand patted her once on the shoulder and Ophelia reopened her eyes just in time to see Tom stride past her to direct the others. Eventually, when she'd absorbed her fill of the scenery from that first step out the tunnel, when she'd memorised every last leaf that littered the ground and the dew drops that clung to them, she followed after at an easy pace. Seeing them all head into the Three Broomsticks made an apprehensive shiver roll down her spine, despite being anything but cold. It seemed too bold, going in there. What if word got back to the professors?

Tentatively, she pressed her hands against the rough-worn door and entered to the sound of soft tinkling of bells. Several of the others were already pressing two tables together in the back, much to the annoyance of the man at the bar. Suddenly, a young girl, so small Ophelia hadn't seen her standing beside the barkeep, ran up to her.

"Well?" the girl demanded, placing her hands on her hips just above where her dress flared out at a near ninety degree angle, filled nearly to the breaking point with fabric and painfully vibrant tulle. "Don't just stand there letting the air out. Sit down already!"

Over the child's shoulder, the man hollered, embarrassed, "Rosie, stop antagonizing the customers!"

She huffed and stomped back over to the person Ophelia presumed to be her father. "I told you to stop calling me that! I'm not a kid anymore..."

"You'll always be a kid to me, Rosemerta," he said fondly, ushering her into the back, where she couldn't cause anymore trouble.

Ophelia slipped into a stool at the front, content to just observe for awhile.

"What'll it be?" the barkeep asked, reaching for a glass.

"No, nothing for me,. I don't have any money." She never needed it, stuck at Hogwarts year round, nor had it been much use in the less than legal nature of her upbringing. "Thank you, though." It struck her then, how inconsiderate it was to take up space there when she had no intention of buying anything, so she made to leave. There was still so much of Hogsmeade left to explore before they returned to the castle. It would have been criminal to waste it indoors anyway.

"Would you watch where you're going?" Fenella snapped, and only Ophelia's classically conditioned response to sensing a threat to her life allowed her to swerve to the side just in time to avoid a collision. Fenella was certainly a threat worthy of such an overreaction, as far as Ophelia was concerned. At least the snake couldn't hold a grudge the way Fenella could.

"My bad," Ophelia apologised with a shrug, although she had a shrewd suspicion Fenella was the one at fault for the near-mishap. Surely that was just the paranoia speaking.

"Going so soon?" Fenella asked, nodding to the door.

"That's the plan."

"Well, you shouldn't."

Ophelia wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. Perhaps she'd imagined hearing the last two letters, unless "shouldn't" had recently attained a double-meaning equating back to "should".

"Come again?" she asked.

Fenella wrinkled her nose in disgust, like she was being forced to explain something extremely simple to an insect, and not a particularly smart one at that. "I'll never understand what he sees in you."

The words just slipped out, it seemed, against Fenella's control in that clipped way of hers.

"Right." Ophelia drew out the word several times it's normal length, just for something to say as her eyes darted around for a means of escape. Even though she wasn't stupid enough to not guess who Fenella was referring to, the concept of playing dumb was suddenly very appealing. "I think I'll just..." She nodded vaguely towards anywhere else, letting her words trail off.

"You know," Fenella side stepped, blocking Ophelia's attempt at a retreat, "I've been his friend for years." She clenched her fists. "Think of how I felt. I've loved Tom since the first time I saw him, standing by himself at the sorting ceremony. I was sure he'd realize that it was me he needed- who would do anything for him- but then you come out of nowhere and all of a sudden he can't take his eyes off you long enough to remember I exist!"

As Fenella's voice rose, Ophelia's heart sank, until, frantically looking around, she grabbed Fenella by the arm and forced her outside, ignoring all protests. Abduction or not, if she was on the cusp of some sort of embarrassing breakdown in the middle of a public place, Ophelia knew she'd want someone to intervene, even her bitterest enemy. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, she dropped her hand, sighing, "Okay, no point delaying the inevitable. Let it all out. Tell me what a deplorable misery I am to know. I'm waiting."

"Is this all some kind of joke to you?"

Ophelia blinked, puzzled. She'd been trying, unsuccessfully apparently, to be sincere. It wasn't her fault it might have come out sounding sarcastic.

"No, no jokes. Not this time." When Fenella still looked apprehensive, Ophelia grudgingly continued, "Look, I'm sorry." It couldn't have been easy watching someone you love fall in love with someone else, even if it wasn't, strictly speaking, true. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, but you're wrong. Tom... he doesn't like me like that... We have a special arrangement, that's it. I doubt he likes anyone that way."

Ophelia didn't add the addendum to that: _And I don't think he ever will_. It seemed too cruel in that moment, although perhaps it was crueler to give Fenella hope.

"Of course you'd say that," she laughed humourlessly. "The worst part of it is, I just can't understand why everyone so eagerly adopted you into the fold. I mean, you cursed me, remember? And Tom still kept you around. He even ordered me not to retaliate, nor that I listened. Why can't people see I'M NOT THE VILLAIN HERE!"

Ophelia flinched. "No one said you were."

"I know everyone hates me, so don't try that!" she snapped. "Even my friends began turning against me the longer you stayed around. I- I know I was a jealous witch at first, but I loved him so much, for five whole years and couldn't understand why he didn't see me, then you're around for what? A few months? And suddenly he's oh-so-different. You're not even from our House, for goodness sake!"

Not sure of what to do or say, Ophelia just stared dumbly. No amount of consoling would make Fenella feel better, and any attempt would seem like an insult anyway.

"I must seem like that wicked girl from a fairytale that does her best two keep the two heroes apart," Fenella sniffed, collapsing against the side of the building. "In another story, perhaps, I'd be the girl the charming boy falls for, huh? The close friend who stuck by him from the beginning, who warded off the evil temptress that tried to turn everyone against her... But no, Tom never liked me like that. You didn't change that much," she finished bitterly.

She sighed, drained now that she'd exhausted her anger.

"Would it make you happy..." Ophelia swallowed, forcing the words out, "if I left?"

Even as she said it, she wasn't sure if it was an offer or not. Was she really willing to go to satisfy this girl who'd put so much time and energy into making her life difficult? It surprised her what a large portion of her was actually willing. Hogwarts was a safe haven, yet so too was it a still a pretty prison. She'd hate to leave her new friends, if she could claim they were as much, especially Tom, but she would.

"You honestly mean that, don't you?" Fen asked, laughing bitterly into her hands. "Good Lord, I truly despise you. I just wish you'd make it easier."

"I'll.., er... work on that." She shifted restlessly from foot to foot. "Sorry."

"Don't you hate me, too?" Fenella pressed, a rare crack of vulnerability in her voice. "I got a group of my friends to help me teach you a lesson for blasting me into a wall, after all."

Ophelia chuckled softly at the memory, even though nothing about it was funny in the slightest. "No, I don't hate you."

"Why?"

She counted the clouds in the sky, debating how to respond. The truth was hardly flattering, but she lied so much about so many things, she didn't want to waste one on something so relatively trivial.

"Hate... takes a lot of energy."

"You're saying I'm not worth the effort," Fenella concluded shrewdly.

Ophelia didn't deny the charge. "I'm not worth the effort, either. Trust me. I mean, it's flattering that you put so much work into despising me, truly, it is, but the one who suffers the most for it certainly isn't me. It's you. You deserve better than that."

"No," Fenella decided, thoughtful. "I don't want you to leave. I'm not that selfish, unfortunately." She stood up, brushed off her robes, wiped all residual tears in her eyes, and affected a business like air. "It would never have worked out with Tom, anyway, even if I was too blinded to see it. My parents would never have accepted someone not among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I think I'd better be getting back. Who knows what that idiot Rabastan is up to without my supervision."

She pulled open the door just as Tom strode out it, pointedly not looking at him. After she'd gone, he remained in the doorway, stating simply, "I thought we agreed you'd stay close, where I could see you."

 _He can't keep his eyes off you_ , Fenella had said. At least Ophelia knew where that insecurity came from, she supposed, even if it didn't ease her guilt.

"Yeah, that was a special case, I—" Her voice cut off. The smoke came so sudden, like drops of ink diffusing through water, Ophelia couldn't so much as see her hand stretched out in front of her, reaching out desperately. "Tom? _Tom_!"

She recognised this smoke. Sometimes, she saw it clouding up her dreams and imagined it filling the corners of empty rooms. Then, with a jerk behind her navel, she felt herself being Apparated away against her will, one hand clamped over her forearm and another tight on her outstretched wrist.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Originally, this was supposed to be two chapters, then I condensed it down to one, but after I finished I split it back into two, since it was like twice as long as usual. Anyway, this seemed like a good place to end it. That being said, since the other half is almost entirely done, I'll probably upload it within a week.**_


	22. XXII

Her feet touched ground again only a moment later, though it took another second to reorient herself enough to focus on the polished obsidian shoes treading lightly on the wavy grass before her. Knowing exactly what she'd find, she followed the shoes to legs, past the ornately designed plum and gold embroidered robes, and finally landed on an ageless, instantly recognizable face.

Mouth dry, she managed, "Hello, Uncle."

It came out like a breath, the strain in her voice palpable. Grindelwald raised a hand to her cheek, running his knuckles softly down the slope of her face. He hadn't changed at all, for better or for worse. Despite all he was guilty of and all she'd done to avoid seeing him, she couldn't help the weight that fell from her chest at the sight of him standing so equanimous before her.

"You've done something to your hair," he noted, tone low and soothing. "But, I'm afraid, blonde doesn't quite suit you."

Ophelia didn't even notice him draw his wand before the colour started leaching from blonde back to a blinding silver-white, like a bizarre age progression, until their resemblance was unmistakable. They could have been father and daughter, or even twin brother and sister lost to each other by decades of time.

"How?" _How did you find me? How'd you know I was here?_

"You know better than to ask that."

He was right. It was glaringly obvious. "You've been having me followed, or... or somehow you've managed to track me."

"Don't look so accusing, child, of course I had to make sure you were safe— what was it you've been calling yourself? _Ophelia_? You wouldn't believe how I laughed when I heard that name. You truly do have a sense of humor— but you know I won't share my methods. You'll just work to find ways around them and then I'll have to use different methods to get the same result. A waste on both our parts."

It wasn't malicious. Just a statement of fact that Ophelia couldn't really contend with. The mention of her birth name, however, brought heat to her cheeks. Why did his presence reduce her back to a disobedient child, even after almost four years?

"Why are you here?" She was glad to hear the bite in her voice, even if she didn't feel it. Even if she couldn't help but be mesmerized by his eyes or manage to pull her own away.

Grindelwald merely smiled, amused. "I was content to let you keep playing this cat and mouse game, _Ophelia_." He enunciated each syllable of her name with a light chuckle, like an inside joke only they shared. In a way, it was. "But that was only when I thought you were safe. I'm not ashamed to say I was mistaken. I can admit my own folly. I thought Albus, of all people, would be able to put everything aside and keep you from harm, but I was wrong. So unforgivably wrong." With the flip of a switch, the light humour in his eyes was smothered, going dark. Dangerous. "You're coming home with me."

Movement in her periphery snapped Ophelia out of her reverie. She jerked away.

"I'm not, actually."

"You think I haven't heard how you nearly died today?" He shook his head, assuming the role of the ever disappointed parent. "They can't keep you safe at that school. Not the way I can. It would be irresponsible of me to leave you now. You're lucky I don't rip that castle apart brick by brick— you're lucky I didn't do it when I first got the news that you we're going to die. It was awfully tempting, except something told me you wouldn't appreciate the effort, so I stayed my hand. I let you sneak out. I let you come to me."

Ophelia's thoughts raced a mile a minute, trying to wrap her mind around how he could have possibly known all that. They were careful to avoid being spotted as they left, and less than ten people even knew she'd been injured so gravely in the first place. At last, it hit her.

"The nurse is one of yours, is she?"

"One of many," he confirmed with a theatrical wave of a hand. "How else would you have left your hospital wing so easily? But enough of that. It's time to go. I was in the middle of something when I received word about you, and I'm afraid we must be getting back."

He reached out an open hand, palm up, in an invitation. As though he were actually giving her a choice, only Ophelia knew better. Prison seems so much more appealing when you choose it for yourself than when it is forced upon you.

She didn't move, didn't breathe. "No."

He sighed. "This teen rebellion is getting old."

"I could say the same thing about _your_ rebellion," she shot back, surprised at her own tenacity.

" _Revolution_ ," he corrected, irked for the first time.

"It doesn't matter what you call it," she exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief. "I don't care if you call it justice. How can there be justice in murder? In torture and terror? How can the ends possibly justify the means? There is wrong on both sides, but that doesn't give you the right to— to kill, nor me does it give me that right." Her voice cracked as she added, "I don't want to be a killer, and you made me one of the best."

Grindelwald actually looked regretful. Sad, even. "Another of my mistakes, child. You know I have made so many. You should never have been put in the position to have to kill the traitor, though I can't say I'm sorry you did, or perhaps I wouldn't be here. Still, you were young, too young back then. For that, I'm sorry."

Knowing her emotions were being manipulated didn't do a whole lot in regards to stopping it from happening. Ophelia slowly raised a hand to place it in his still outstretched one, their fingers only a hairs-breadth apart. A fraction of an inch and everything would be back to how it was. He wouldn't make the first move, of course, he preferred his followers to come to him. To individually decide and dedicate themselves to his cause. If he took her against her will, she'd only find another escape anyway.

Suddenly, Grindelwald's head snapped to the side, focusing in on a point Ophelia couldn't discern. "It's incredibly rude to eavesdrop."

A careless underhanded flick of his wand from his free hand sent the first true bolt of fear into her heart. Tom materialised, looking shocked, with his own wand drawn and aimed squarely at her uncle's chest from a few paces away.

That second hand she'd felt when Grindelwald stole her away. That had been him.

"Get away from him," Tom ordered, not taking his eyes off Grindelwald. His fingers tightened around his wand until they were nearly white from the strain.

"Tom," she started, withdrawing her hand from her uncle's quickly. "Tom, _run_!"

"Too late." Grindelwald sent him hurtling backwards through the air, only stopping when Tom's back slammed awkwardly with a tree.

"Don't kill him!" Ophelia shouted, lunging between the two, arms spread wide.

"Kill him?" Her uncle actually sounded offended in his own offhand way. "Of course I don't intend to kill him. It would be an utter waste of magical blood, so step aside while I see what this little spy is after."

"He's no spy!"

"That still waits to be seen," he countered, stepping around Ophelia even as she did her best to block his view. "His actions seem to imply otherwise. _Legilimens_."

First, Tom's expression went blank, then his brows furrowed in concentration and and sweat beaded at his temple. Teeth bared, he looked up at Grindelwald with such unspeakable hate it seemed to make the whole world turn a shade darker. He reached again for his wand that had fallen away during his collision with the tree, but doubled over as Grindelwald stabbed harder into his mind.

"Stop this, Uncle! Stop! _You're hurting him!"_

She wrapped her arms around his wand arm and put all her weight into lowering it, to no avail. The basilisk venom still left her physically weak, in spite of Fawkes' best efforts, and Grindelwald was naturally quite strong.

"Impressive," Grindelwald mused, pouring over Tom's every thought and feeling. "Very impressive. You hold such talent for a boy your age. It's been some time since I've encountered a worthy Occlumens." He stalked forth, one leisurely step at a time, until he was directly in front of Tom, and sat back on his haunches, pleasantly analysing him as Tom fought vengefully back at the force trying to invade his mind. "You could join me, boy. Come with us. A bright mind like yours could go far under the right tutelage. Experience is so much better a teacher than a classroom, I find."

That thought— just the idea of Tom joining him— sent alarm bells ringing violently in Ophelia's head. Under no circumstances would she ever let her uncle mould him as he had her. She could see that future as clearly as she couldn't see her own: Tom would indeed go far. He'd be great, like he always wanted, but at what a cost?

A cost Ophelia wasn't prepared to pay.

Grindelwald didn't even look up as she approached, too intent on Tom's agonised attempts to fight him off in both body and mind. It seemed to amuse Grindelwald, that fruitless struggle. At that point, Legilimency was second nature to him. He'd fought off dozens while forcing his way into their heads for information, to anticipate their movements, or just to prove he could. Most never noticed the intrusion before they died, so the fact that Tom felt anything was a testament to his own ability, despite how Ophelia almost wished he'd just give her uncle what he wanted rather than prolong his own suffering.

"None of that," Grindelwald chastised lightly, flicking his wand carelessly to deflect a vicious, yet sloppy, emerald spell Tom managed to pull himself together enough to fire into the small space separating them. "So, what do you say, boy? Will you return with us to the continent and fight for a new, more just world order?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, his eyes widened in alarm, seeing something only he and Tom could, something hidden in the annals of Tom's mind. His volume dropped, cloaking his words ominously. "I knew something was off about you, boy. Even I do not throw my fate in with such dark magic. To make a Horcrux—"

"Get out of my head!" Tom raged.

"I'll give you one more chance. Join us."

"I'm don't want to do this, Uncle."

He whipped his head around at the exact moment her spell hit, only strong enough to stun for about three seconds, though it knocked him clean over. She couldn't ignore the betrayal painted across the plains of his face, for they both knew the only reason she could do what none other could was because she was the one person he trusted enough to lower his guard with his back turned. Her victory was not one bought fairly, but stolen out of misgiven trust, and based on his expression she could almost believe it hurt him as much as it did her.

There wasn't enough time for that. There wasn't time to explore the complexities of guilt at that specific moment, but she'd be sure to revisit it later.

The first second she wasted watching Grindelwald collapse. In the next, she snapped back to the present, rushing to Tom's side. By the third, her arm looped through his, tight enough to cut off both their circulation, and she made one last silent plea to any benevolent deities listening that her Apparation skills had miraculously improved since she'd splinched herself last time as a thirteen year old run-away.

After focusing with all the force she didn't spare for her studies, they reappeared at the foot of the tunnel they had used to sneak out of Hogwarts in the first place. By unspoken consensus, they sprinted the entire way back to the castle, sometimes Tom propelling her forward when she slacked, sometimes the other way around.

Their chests heaved uncontrollably by the time Tom's arm pulled taut at the base of the statue of Emeric the Evil and Ophelia was forced to acknowledge that he was no longer running. She barely noticed the steady tracks of tears crawling down her cheeks other than to silently curse them. She hadn't cried in years, but seeing her uncle had made old wounds sting fresh.

So close. She'd been so close to choosing him. Part of her still wished she had.

Angrily, she swiped at her cheeks, frustrated with Grindelwald, with Tom, and most of all with herself.

"If I hadn't been there," Tom said, sounding like he was fighting to catch his breath, "would you have gone with him?"

A lie would have been easiest. Ophelia didn't think she had enough fire left to hold her own through a brewing argument, not after the record breaking, phenomenally bad day she'd just experienced, only something told her he wouldn't believe anything but the truth.

"Don't ask questions if you don't much care to hear the answer," she replied dully, pressing her palms to her closed eyes.

"You swore you wouldn't."

"Oh, I really don't think you want to be tallying broken promises right now."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You think I didn't hear my uncle say you made a Horcrux?" she asked, sounding exhausted even to her own ears, considering the weight of the accusation.

"You believe him?" he deflected.

"He's a lot of things, but a liar isn't one of them. He wouldn't say it if he didn't believe it to be true!" She swung around to face him and planted a finger in his chest. " _You_ , on the other hand, do little else but lie. So yes, if you must know, I do believe him! How could you do it, even after I asked you not to?"

"I thought you were dead," he hissed. "I saw you bleed out in a puddle of your own blood. Forgive me for not thinking too much about your opinion on immortality when you seemed to already be beyond such thugs. Given all that— given that you nearly died— I'd expect you might rethink your position!"

If she'd been slapped, it would have stung less. "Don't pin this on me! Horcruxes are against the natural way of things. There's dignity to be found in growing old and dying."

"And what of those who die young? Are they undignified?" he countered, disgusted. "Would your death have lacked dignity? Did my own fool of a mother's? You are hardly old, after all. How is that fair? Don't people deserve a chance to live full lives, by any means necessary?"

"How can you live a full life with only half a soul?" she demanded. "Not to mention what you have to do to even create one..."

"The girl was already dead. There was no taking that back, so I might as well take advantage of it." Seeing Ophelia's stricken expression, he added, "It's not like I went out of my way to murder her."

"I," she shook her head in disbelief, "I don't even have the words to explain to you how much is wrong with what you just said. I just can't."

Jerkily, Tom took hold of both her upper arms and squeezed tightly. "What's done is done. The reason you can't explain why it's wrong is because you must see, as I do, that there was nothing wrong at all. I can see everything so much more clearly now." His eyes gleamed with feverish intensity, like he needed her to understand or something terrible would happen. Gone was the cool, controlled veneer he used as to filter out the world, only to be replaced with what could only be construed as... as madness. "You can make one, too, don't you see? Neither of us have to die!"

"Stop," Ophelia pleaded, struggling to free herself from his grip, but she was backed against a wall with no place to go. "Please, _you're scaring me_!"

" _I_ scare you?" He laughed brittlely. "I'm only trying to protect you! I'm trying to keep you safe!" He released her from his vice-like hold to cup her face with one hand and bring his forehead to rest against hers. "Why can't you understand?"

"Even my uncle won't meddle with magic like that," she protested, weaving her fingers through his robes and bunching them into fists so tight it made her joints ache. "You've seen the type of person he is. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"If anything, today I learned I'm not nearly powerful enough. Even with all my magic, with my Occlumency and my Legilimency, with everything that marks me as a prodigy within these walls, I've never felt so— helpless. If he refuses to do something, I must, in order to be his better. It's the only way!"

Unsure what else to do, she frustratedly tugged harder on his robes, torn between dragging him closer and shoving him away. "He's had decades more experience than us! Of course he's more powerful, but that doesn't mean you're not a powerful wizard yourself! You practically eviscerate the rest of us in all our classes and you don't see us complaining! Give it a few years and I'm sure you'll catch up, you'll be even stronger than he is, just don't do this! Don't do _this_!"

"It's already done," he breathed. "And we don't have a few years. If he's already made a move to bring you back, I need to be his equal _now_. He'll try again to bring you back."

"But Horc—" she lowered her voice to a hissed whisper as a precaution, "Horcruxes do nothing to make you strong. They don't amplify your magic any."

"You truly believe he wouldn't kill me if I got in his way?"

Ophelia opened her mouth to speak— and hesitated just a second too long. "I won't let him. He'll listen to me if I... if I plead a little."

His thumb brushed along the ridge of her cheekbone, high enough that she could feel it tickling her lashes when she blinked. "Are you willing to stake my life on that?"

She swallowed. "I'm willing to stake mine."

"That's not good enough." He let his hand fall and drew himself up to his full height. "But you already know that, and now that he's aware I already have one Horcrux, even that isn't enough."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Laughter rang down the corridor, cutting through the fog of tension. They both jerked away as the sound of footsteps grew steadily louder, although not before Tom inexplicably whipped back around, reaching over her shoulder with both arms to unfurl her scarlet hood and pulling down as far as it could go over her face.

"Why aren't you two at the end-of-term feast?" Tom questioned when they turned into view. Luckily, his calm, authoritative tone betrayed nothing of the untempered fury brewing just beneath the surface only a moment before.

Immediately, the two froze, shooting loaded looks back and forth until finally the taller one replied, "We didn't expect to run into anyone. Why aren't you at the feast?"

He craned his neck to get a look at Ophelia, trying to peer under the hood, but Tom stepped in front, cutting off the view.

"We are prefects. Professor Slughorn sent us on an errand," Tom said with such confidence it left no room for doubt, least of all argument.

"It's not against the rules to miss the feast," the boy retorted, sounding far less certain, as though he was beginning to wonder if it was true.

A gracious smile pulled at Tom's lips, as fake as his tone. "Indeed, it's not. It's just a shame that someone would choose to miss it when we," he inclined his head vaguely towards Ophelia, taking care to keep her blocked from view, "were just bemoaning the fact that we can't be there ourselves."

As he wove his explanation, carefully ingratiating himself and sounding so wistful it nearly tugged at the heartstrings, Ophelia thought that if this whole wizard thing didn't work out he'd have a lucrative career in acting.

"Carry on, then," he urged. "Just don't get into too much trouble. I'm pretty sure Peeves is in the Transfiguration classroom, so you won't be able to blame it on him if you get caught."

The two laughed, waving good bye as they continued on there way, and offering a single, "Thanks for the warning, Tom. Be seeing you next fall!"

Ophelia roughly shook her head, not unlike a wet dog, until the hood fell back off her head, leaving her hair in a state of semi-windswept disrepair.

"What was that for?" she groused.

Just like that, his charming veneer vanished. "It's fine by me if the school sees your silver hair, but I thought you might be less appreciative."

"Ah," she said, off balance from the uncharacteristically considerate answer, especially since she could still feel his irritation radiating off him in waves. "I'd forgotten he'd done that."

Ophelia reluctantly braced herself for a comment along the lines of, " _That's why you always find yourself in so much trouble,"_ or _, "Try using your head next time_ ," but they never came. Instead, he meticulously straightened his rumbled robes, paying her little notice.

Only when she began seriously contemplating leaving him there to brood in peace did he speak, still paying more attention to his robes than her. "I don't imagine I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

"Probably not," she said after a moment's consideration. "No point having others wonder why I don't board the Hogwarts Express with the rest of you."

Tom nodded tersely, as though he'd expected as much. "And you'll still be here when I get back?"

She snorted. "Where would I even go?"

"You know where."

Of course. Grindelwald.

"Do I look like a magnet to you? Just because you ' _let go_ '," she drew quotes into the air with her fingers, "for a few months doesn't mean I'm going to be automatically drawn back into my uncle's orbit. I was perfectly fine before I met you, and, frankly, you're in far more danger than I am, out in the real world."

 _The real world_. As though this one, trapped within the unchanging bubble of Hogwarts, was false. Stagnant, letting the world pass it by for a thousand years past, and likely for another millennia more. Sometimes, Ophelia had to remind herself she was even alive.

"I would trade the muggle world for this in an instant," Tom said sharply, cracks of envy breaking through his mask.

"And I would trade the world to never see this place again." Ophelia shrugged, pretending she didn't notice his jealousy. "Being the only person in the castle for Peeves to torment is not nearly as enjoyable as you might imagine, besides whichever teachers choose to stay behind." Without realizing it, bitterness crept into her voice. "Not many do." Quickly, she tried to recover some cheer. "It's just three months, anyway. With any luck, I'll manage to find some cure for your horrible ailment in that time."

Her eyes, vicious and determined, left no doubt that the "ailment" of which she spoke referred to the Horcrux.

Tom chuckled with little humor, shaking his head like he knew something she didn't, and turned to walk away, back to the Slytherin dormitory. "You forget. That also gives _me_ three months find a way to change your mind. I'll make you understand. You'll want to join me, by the time I'm through."

 _End of Fifth Year,_

 _June 1943_

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _It's, taken so long to get to this point. I'm soooooo tired. Alas, there's still over ten chapters on the docket so it's not over yet. Lowkey can't wait until I finish so I can work on other things. I've had to shelve like eight other stories to focus so much on this one, and as much as I love it, I miss the others too._**

 ** _Also, I feel like it goes without saying that this work and fantastic beasts aren't apart of the same world line. In my defense, I originally got the idea for this BEFORE fantastic beast came out... but I did steal Grindelwald's look from the movie._**


	23. XXIII

Ophelia awoke September 1st to the feeling of a freezing winters rain. The problem: it wasn't winter and nor was she outside.

"Peeves!" she snapped, jerking, damp and displeased, back into consciousness. After months and months with the persistent poltergeist, she had no doubt that it was he who was behind this most recent attack, even before she opened her eyes. It was a deep-rooted knowledge, an irritation buried down to the bone. "You know what the Headmaster said about infesting the library!"

"Peevsie should tell the Headmaster li'l 'Phelia is in the restricted section." He bobbed his head with saintly sincerity, his whole floating form bouncing up in down in time with the movement. "Against the rules, it is. Wouldn't want li'l 'Phelia to be breaking rules."

"Then I can't wait to tell him about you bringing a bucket of water into the library where it could damage the books," she threatened, pulling out her wand and running it along her form to dry off. "You can bet the librarian will exorcise you herself if she catches wind."

In an act of mind blowing maturity, Peeves stuck out his tongue and blew a long series of raspberries as he floated backwards towards the door. Ophelia breathed a sigh of relief when he finally disappeared, until the book on various aspects of Dark Magic— including details on Horcruxes— that she'd swiped from Restricted Section shelves began dancing away, seemingly of its own accord.

" _Accio_ ," she sighed, resigned to his antics by then.

The book didn't come. Indeed, it kept floating dandily towards the open doorway, seemingly giggling at her wasted effort. Ophelia knew many of the books on Dark Magic contained bizarre curses and spells meant to protect them; did someone place one that repelled the summoning charm?

She couldn't let that book get away, and not just because she was loathe to let Peeves win.

Just because the Poltergeist was invisible didn't mean he was impenetrable. Holding onto the book meant he needed to maintain a physical form, so Ophelia could very well have just tried to stun him. Unfortunately, the last time she'd tried that was still fresh in her mind and sent her into a cold sweat. She practically had to evacuate the castle to avoid his renewed, vigorous taunting after he'd recovered from her spell. She still wasn't quite sure, exactly, how Peeves had made his way into Slughorn's locked cupboards to swipe all manner of foul potions to terrorise her with, dropping them overhead like a Zepplin bomber. Worst yet was when he'd acquired a vicious pair of rust-covered pruning shears and chased her from classroom to classroom for nearly a week before she'd managed to disarm him. "Let's take a little of the top!" He'd cackle, and she was never sure whether he meant to cut off all her hair or go straight for the head. The ambiguity was just enough to keep her from wanting an encore.

Instead, she aimed her wand at the long uninterrupted stone floor outside the library doors and made the rough surface about as gripping as ice. With a running leap, she slid across the corridor in nearly a third of the time it would have taken to sprint it. Ophelia made a mental note to come back and undue the spell before she accidentally murdered the librarian.

"When I catch you," she huffed, pushing off the opposite wall and propelling herself after him, "I'm going use your intestines as a scarf."

"So scaaaaarrrry," he cackled. Ophelia reached the moving staircase at an open sprint, him mere seconds before her. Standing in midair just beyond the railing that prevented Ophelia from tumbling down multiple floors, Peeves spun around like a top to face her and waved a taunting hand. "Bye-bye!"

Still twiddling his long, gray fingers, he gradually began his descent, as if from within a dumbwaiter. Ophelia briefly eyed the stairs, calculating the odds of catching up to him by conventional methods. Frankly, the numbers didn't look good.

With the book getting farther and farther out of her reach— not to mention the way Peeves licked his forefinger and thumb with relish before flipping to a random page to read— Ophelia came to a rash decision. It could not become common knowledge that she was reading that type of book. At least she had plausible deniability if she had it hidden when Peeves began to broadcast the information around, but first she needed the book in her hands.

She swung first one leg and then the other over the bannister, and before she could reconsider— or come to her senses— she let her feet drop out from underneath her. The friction with the polished wood bars supporting the banister burned the pads of her hands as she fell, only at the last possible moment letting go to swing down onto the next level.

The second time she tried the same, still in pursuit of the poltergeist, didn't work nearly as well. Peeves, although still three floors below her nearly to the ground, stopped lowering to watch her progress with a childlike interest that made Ophelia more nervous than anything else.

That time, her foot slammed into the next floor's rail as she attempted propel herself over it. Peeves clapped enthusiastically as she pushed her face out of the carpet and nursed her strained wrist begotten from awkwardly catching herself.

She hadn't avoided countless governments, Aurors, and her uncle for months when she was just twelve to be defeated by one particularly pesky poltergeist.

With that thought jabbing at the forefront of her mind, she clambered over yet another banister and leapt— except she hadn't factored in the damage to her wrist. When it came time to swing herself down, the muscles connecting her forearm to her arm screamed.

And then released prematurely.

Instead of landing within the relative safety of the next floor, Ophelia plummeted.

The first floor rose up, readying for a tight embrace, while Ophelia frantically grappled with her fluttering povkets for her wand. By the time she dislodged it, however, the floor was already right there, leaving no time to so much as think of a spell.

Ophelia felt a sharp, jerking tug behind the shoulders, but definitely not the type of splattering impact she was expecting. Only after Peeves blew another slew of raspberries directly into her ear— hardly a pleasant sensation, but arguably better than falling three floors— and let her go a couple handspans from the ground, did the impossible occur to her.

Peeves had, for once in his amortal life, been... helpful?

The only explanation she could imagine was that he'd grown so fond of tormenting her over the summer he didn't want his torturous "fun" to end prematurely.

Heart still pounding from adrenaline, she made a swipe for the book before Peeves could pull away again.

Peeves tutted in disapproval. "No, no, no! Pesky little witchy. Pesky, pesky, pesky!"

Swatting her atop the head with the book with each successive " _pesky_ ," Peeves continued zooming down the corridors, towards the entrance hall.

"There has got to be an easier way to do this," she groaned, legs stretching back into a hard sprint.

As Peeves began to jovially sing out the contents of chapter one, Ophelia decided his wrath would be worth it to shut him up and began firing spells indiscriminately. He lifted the book in his defense, a paper shield against the onslaught.

Dumbledore caught her by surprise by appearing outside the doors of the entrance hall, and she in turn caught him by surprise by accidentally singeing his beard with a small fireball she'd been aiming at Peeves' head.

"I seem to recall a rule about flinging curses down the corridors," the professor said mildly, patting the residual sparks from his beard.

"Sorry, sir," she called over her shoulder as she whipped past him. "Peeves and I are just... bonding."

If " _bonding_ " was a synonym for " _trying to drive each other it insanity_."

An arm came out of nowhere, wrapping around her waste in a feeling not unlike being clotheslined, and for one wild moment she thought it was the poltergeist.

"I knew I heard your dulcet tones," Rabastan exclaimed, pulling her sideways from the corridor into the Great Hall. "I thought I might go mad from loneliness at not having seen your transcendent face these last few months, your beautific smile, your..." he waved an arm through the air, searching vainly for words, then noticed Ophelia's appalled expression and laughed. "You should have joined us in our carriage. It was oh-so-boring teasing Fenella and Tom without you there." Leaning in, as though to whisper some great secret directly into her ear, he said, "I don't know if you've noticed, but those two kids don't have much in terms of a sense of humor."

Her surprise at seeing a familiar face so soon temporarily drove the current matter at hand far from her mind. It couldn't already be time for the welcoming feast, could it? She'd only just woken up! Granted, her circadian rhythm had synched up with the a few of the owls perched up in the Owlery...

"Wait! Where's Peeves?" She pulled herself out of his grasp, frantically searching out her prey. "I need to find him _now_."

"After this?" A cool voice intoned, and she spun around to get a good look at the speaker, ignoring the way her stomach clenched at the sound.

It wasn't his increased height that stood out most. It was the way Tom carried himself. The way he seemed so steal the oxygen from the room and, with it, her train of thought with it. He simply commanded attention. Even the light seemed to bend more kindly upon his face than it did any other.

"Hey," she said dumbly, before remembering herself and reaching for the book.

She really needed to pull herself together.

Tom didn't let go immediately. Ophelia tugged harder, but his eyes held her for the longest, heart stopping moment, before sliding to the cover and absorbing the title, recognition registering there.

Releasing it at last, he commented, "I hope it was informative."

Translation: _So, you're still trying to find a way to reverse the Horcrux._

Ophelia blinked the confusion from her eyes and hugged the book to her chest. "What? Oh. Oh, yeah. It was." She was so busted, and based on the knowing smile forming on his lips, he knew it as well as she. "How did you get it?"

"I think the better question is how did Peeves?"

She really didn't want to rehash the last half hour. She wasn't sure her pride could take the blow.

"From the library," she replied evasively, hoping he wouldn't ask for more detail than that. "How did you manage to steal it back?"

"You keep your secrets, and I'll keep mine," he stated slyly, obviously seeing right through her too-offhand affectation. "Dumbledore's about to bring out the first years. Let's take a seat."

Tom took her hand and pulled her past the other students towards the Slytherin long table.

"Hey, Tom. You never hold _my_ hand," Rabastan whined, trailing after them.

Ophelia would have killed him herself, had Fenella not jabbed him in the side with her wand first.

All of a sudden, Ophelia looked up, an eerie feeling curling across her skin. Right in front of her, staring clear into her soul, stood the impossible. He couldn't actually be there. She should know.

She'd been the one to kill him, after all.

All the blood drained from her face and she must have stopped walking, because Tom's hand slipped out of hers. Like an apparition, Julius vanished, but the visions of that day, of raising her wand to protect her uncle from his treachery, remained.

Ophelia didn't hear Tom speaking until her heart ceased pounding in her ears.

"What—what did you say?" she asked breathlessly.

He certainly didn't act like he'd seen anything outside of the normal. Eyebrow raised, he leaned down and scooped up the book to hand it back to her again. Evidently, it had slid out of her grasp in her limp-limbed shock.

"I would say you look like you've seen a ghost, but, well..." He nodded meaningfully towards the Grey Lady, only a few feet away. "I don't think you'd be that surprised, at this point."

Ophelia attempted a smile, and probably failed, for that's when her attention caught on his ring, plain, were it not for the deliberate scratches along a small stone where one would usually expect a diamond.

The doors opened behind them as Dumbledore ushered in the new students, reminding Ophelia what they were doing. Quickly, she snatched back the book, careful to avoid brushing Tom's skin again, and hurried to find a seat.

It had to be a coincidence, or she hadn't seen the symbol correctly. That was it. But what explained Julius? He'd seemed so real, like she could have reached out and touched him if only she tried.

Like she could have murdered him all over again.

She hadn't remembered him being so young, with her child's eyes. He'd always seemed much older in memory. He couldn't have brushed past thirty. Far too young to die.

Tom and Rabastan sat across from her, and Fenella beside. Her thoughts were too otherwise diverted to acknowledge the strange reality where Fen chose, without a wand aimed threateningly at her head, to willingly be within Ophelia's orbit, though it was certainly as mind boggling as phantoms from the past appearing to haunt her waking dreams.

Rabastan cocked his head curiously at the strange turn of events but, for once, didn't comment.

The rest of the usual crowd took their seats around them, casually orchestrating ways to be closest to Tom.

Ophelia was grateful when the Sorting Ceremony finally began, since it gave an excuse for her stunned silence.

It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. Right?

That ring. Where had it come from? Why did it have the symbol of the Hallows, of all things?

As, one by one, the first years trickled down to their respective new Houses, Ophelia squinted at the ring from across the table, visible as Tom leisurely tapped his fingers on the hardwood.

Noticing her staring, he fluidly slipped the ring from his finger and held it out in the center of his palm. "Do you like it?"

She met his gaze, before quickly looking away. "Do you mind if I..."

"By all means."

It fell softly into her hand, surprisingly solid in its weight. If Tom thought the way she immediately let it drop onto her napkin, as though burned, was unusual, he didn't comment.

But she was certain he noticed.

As much as she wanted to be casual about her inspection, it was difficult, since she wasn't quite ready to touch the thing again, in case her suspicions were correct. Which they weren't. They couldn't be. Even if the Deathstick was real, since her Uncle claimed to have it and she didn't imagine he was foolish enough to be taken in by a fake, the others couldn't possibly. A wand could be forged by any proficient wand-maker, but the stone? What could bring forth the dead?

And yet, did she simply imagine Julius a second ago? Did she misread the markings? Was it a coincidence? Or was Peeves trying to get even on some elaborate joke?

The last one, admittedly, didn't seem likely.

"It's not going to bite, you know," Tom said amusedly when she started trying to use a fork to flip it into a better angle.

She forced a laugh, though it probably sounded less charming and more psychotic. "Of course. What was I thinking?"

With nervous fingers, she plucked the ring off the napkin and held it by the ridge furthest from the stone. The scratches were unmistakable, if not a bit sloppy. Mouth dry, she forced herself to run a hand over the stone, and breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened, feeling exceedingly foolish for getting so worked up.

Then Ophelia's heart jumped into her throat at the soft whisper of a sound over her shoulder.

"It's been awhile, Lae."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Not important to the plot (I might not even explain it later tbh, since I never actually intended to put in Ophelia's birth name) but any guesses as to what Lae is short for? I thought I could get away with never revealing it, but Julius wouldn't have known her by anything else, unfortunately. Hint: it's not actually a girl name.**_

 _ **Also, not that it matters, I've conferred with my foremost advisor (i.e. my best friend) and decided to change the ending a bit, which might cut the book down like 5 chapters. Little bummed since those two final chapters that I now won't be using were actually the first I ever wrote for this story :( Oh well, it must be done.**_


	24. XXIV

Ophelia, in Tom's not-so humble opinion, looked like she might pass out. Admittedly, it was an odd thing to do, but then again perhaps she just liked to not breathe every once and awhile. Who was he to judge?

She crushed the ring within her fist, so tight the lightness of bone peaked through her knuckles, like a canvass pulled near breaking point, all the while staring straight forward with unnerving focus. Despite knowing nothing was there, Tom found himself checking over his shoulder to see what she was staring at.

"It's— a pretty neat ring," she said finally, a little breathless. "Where did you find it?"

"Call it a family heirloom," Tom decided wryly after a moments thought.

Ophelia cocked her head and asked, "What's so funny?"

He arched a brow. "I never said anything was funny."

"You didn't need to. " She jabbed a finger accusingly at him. "I know that look, Tom Riddle. You're far too smug. What's so funny?'

"Well, Ophelia Ashwood," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "if that is your real name," as he suspected, her vision cleared and he felt a sharp, but half-hearted kick aimed his way under the table, "do you truly want to know?"

It was an empty question. Tom had absolutely no intention of telling Ophelia the truth, not about this. She would never understand what happened, let alone why it happened.

He'd only originally gone to Little Hangleton to get answers about the past. He _needed_ to know why he'd been discarded as he had been, but the second Morfin opened his mouth all of a sudden Tom could only see red. Perhaps, if he'd only been a muggle, nothing would have come of it. Tom wasn't a muggle, however. He had the power most people could only dream of at his fingertips. While most would have to physically travel ten, fifteen, thirty minutes to satisfy rash, anger-fueled decisions, a wizard could Apparate and be there in an instant. No chance to cool down into rational thinking. It was all over and done with in less than five minutes.

That being said, Tom didn't regret killing his muggle-trash father and the grandparents complicit in his abandonment. They deserved it.

They deserved it, not that the authorities would agree with that assessment.

Morfin was nearly as vile, so it was no great shame to frame him for their deaths. He'd brought the great line of Slytherin into the dirt and quite nearly to extinction. He'd rot in Azkaban before long, just as Tom was forced to rot in Wool's Orphanage for over a decade before Dumbledore came knocking on their door, as out of place as an octopus in the middle of the London Underground.

Tom wondered if he'd feel different about murdering three people before splitting his soul. He could still remember how it felt to realize he'd accidentally killed Myrtle, but it didn't feel real anymore. Those emotions were someone else's, as were the memories.

"If I wasn't very mistaken, I'd say you didn't want to tell me where you got it," Ophelia countered, far too shrewd for her own good.

Tom leaned back on his bench, calculating his answer. Finally, he settled on the one response that would irritate her the most, short of the truth. "When have I ever been less than forthcoming with you?"

She snorted and rolled the ring, a little too forcefully, across the table back at him. "When indeed."

With some obvious reservations, she let it drop, though he knew that wouldn't be the end of it in the long term. It didn't matter. Dodging questions came as easily to him as breathing most days. Easier, even.

III

"The first day of class hasn't even ended and the librarian's already in the hospital wing," Avery shared from Tom's left as they made their way from the first Potion's class of the new school year. "Or at least that's what I heard Professor Luvega tell Slughorn just now."

His wasn't the only interest piqued evidently. To Tom's amusement, Ophelia leaned in closer to listen, despite her countless past claims to have "absolutely no interest" in such gossip.

"Oh?" Tom prompted. "What for?"

Avery shot him a grin that wasn't altogether kind as he said, "Word is that a student cast a spell on the floor leading to the library that made it slippery. She slid halfway down the corridor before falling and banging her hip. Wish I could find the bloke who did it and shake their hand."

"And you're sure this wasn't one of our band of misfits?" Tom asked, skeptical.

Avery shook his head, visibly saddened by the admission. "You think a Slytherin would have done that and not taken credit, at least within the House? No way. Must be a Gryffindor."

Tom was midway through nodding when he noticed the most spectacular expression of what could only be horror flicker across Ophelia's face out of his periphery. By the time he focused on her, however, she schooled her expression into one of vague interest. Either she was unusually attached to the librarian or he'd severely underestimated her willingness to maim.

"Who do you think did it?" he asked her slyly.

"You know Peeves, always up to no good." The faint pink creeping up past her collar didn't escape Tom's notice.

Avery immediately shot that theory down. "They already thought of that. This was definitely magic, not some poltergeist trickery."

She gritted her teeth, replying curtly, "I'm sure it was an accident then, and whoever did it must feel very remorseful."

"Oh? How can you be so sure?" Tom prodded.

"Call it intuition," she said quickly, before deliberately dropping back to walk with Ephiriam and Augusta.

"What's up with her?" Avery pointed a thumb back in Ophelia's direction, at a loss.

Tom found he couldn't quite formulate an honest answer.

III

Ophelia just knew she'd forgotten something. She'd have to send the librarian flowers later, or would that scream, "Guilty conscience"? Perhaps that would be a tad too much like returning to the scene of the crime... Well, technically she still had to sneak the book that Peeves had so rudely stolen from her back into the restricted section, so maybe it was a blessing in disguise that the librarian would be gone for a little while.

As Tom walked only feet ahead of her, she found her eyes being drawn again and again back to the ring decorating his finger. How come, if her theory was correct and that was a Hallow, Tom didn't seem to notice anything amiss? He certainly didn't _act_ like he was being stalked by the ghosts of the dead. His poker-face notwithstanding, Tom was behaving far too casual. Which begged the question: why did Ophelia see anything at all if he did not?

Maybe she was going a little more crazy than she initially thought.

Unless you actually had to want to see the person for it to work. Tom mentioned his mother was dead, but Ophelia got the impression he didn't care much for her either way. Unfortunately, that also meant Ophelia had to be a glutton for punishment, since that also meant for some reason she couldn't fathom she actually wanted to see Julius.

Well, she didn't.

Now if only she could convince herself of that

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _So... uh... disclaimer:_**

 ** _The views in this chapter don't necessarily represent my own. Don't go murdering yah family members. Don't recommend it._**

 ** _Sorry for the chapter being so short, but it's just how it turned out._**


	25. XXV

All things considered, it was a slow day around Hogwarts. A slow week really. In fact, Ophelia thought, you could round it up to a slow month.

That's how she found herself in the Slytherin common room, all the furniture pushed back against the walls, watching a good proportion of the House establish their own medieval hierarchy. First years dueled fifth years, seventh years dueled fourth years, age didn't factor into the matchups whatsoever. They were utterly lawless, and reveled in it. Ophelia would have felt the need to step in when a fresh faced first year girl got matched with the burly seventh year Quidditch team captain, where it not for the fact that her interruption would not have been welcome from either side. She settled for sitting at the edge of the fray with her face buried in her hands and her wand calculatedly out of reach. Tom made it painfully clear what he thought of that, but tucked it into his pocket nonetheless with the air of a long-suffering, yet tired, parent.

Maybe she was being a little overdramatic. Maybe. That still didn't mean she wanted to run the risk of accidentally-on-purpose intervening.

"Come on, little coward," Rabastan taunted. "And you call yourself a Gryffindor. We need another person to even out the numbers."

"To even out... what, exactly?" Ophelia asked. She thus far assumed they were being guided only by god's of chaos and anarchy.

Rabastan folded his arms over his chest and looked like he thought she might be a few players short of a full quidditch team. "Are you really asking that?"

"They need an even number of people if they are going to duel tournament in a tournament," Tom explained.

"You say that like you're not involved," Rabastan said pointedly.

"I'm merely letting life take its course," Tom stated with a shrug.

Ophelia seriously doubted that the teachers would accept that as a proper response, especially coming from everyone's most adored prefect.

"I want no part of this. Dueling for fun isn't what I'd consider a good time," she said.

To exemplify her point, she dug herself further into the couch, like a fox burrowing into its den.

Rabastan wagged his finger condescendingly. "You just don't want to be shown up by an eleven year old."

Ophelia couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her chest. "Maybe you kids need to fight to establish dominance or whatever, but I'm perfectly content in my knowledge that I'd wipe the floor with all of you and don't feel the need to prove it," she said sweetly, with enough joking pretension to give him a run for his money.

"Are you going to take that, Tom?" Rabastan grinned. "She just said she could beat you."

"This might come as a surprise to you, but I'm not actually hard of hearing," Tom told him wryly. "Although... for once, I might agree with you." He turned the full force of his focus on Ophelia, a distinct challenge in his eyes.

She didn't need Legilimency to know where this was going. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no!"

"Let's see if your confidence is justified," Tom said, rising fluidly to his feet and reaching forward to pull her up by the forearms.

She wasn't having it.

"No," she repeated, defiantly burying them beneath her, while he did his best to tug them free.

"You're being immature."

"And you're being tyrannical," Ophelia laughed.

"You're both being ridiculous," Fenella cut in, striding over, her arms crossed imperiously over her chest. "Regardless, you," she pointed one finger at Ophelia, "are taking part of this. You have no choice. I finally have the chance to beat you in a duel fair and square, and I won't have you backing out."

With her part said, she waited for no nay-saying response, only sharing a long look with Tom before storming back across the room to continue her conversation with Walburga.

Satisfied, Rabastan clapped his hands together. "Well, I guess that settles that. Let's finish off the first round then. Oi, Terence, it's your time to shine."

As he waved the first year to the center of the room, Ophelia finally relented long enough to let Tom pull her to her feet.

"She's more a tyrant than you are," Ophelia muttered, nodding at Fenella's back.

"Well, she learned from the best," Tom admitted.

"Ha. Ha."

The real question was if it would be too suspicious to allow a eleven year old to beat her.

One look from Fenella drove all thoughts of letting Terence win away. Fenella would certainly not accept that outcome, so Ophelia would have to wait to lose against at least a fifth year or above if she hoped to be realistic.

Although most concluded their duels when one party was physically incapable of casting a spell, such as by having their arms transfigured into bat wings, or being hit by a babbling curse, the idea of doing the same to some kid five years her junior felt like a bit of a moral grey area. Their wands raised, waiting for the go-ahead, Ophelia decided she'd just disarm him and be done with it.

"Just how many rounds are there, exactly?" she asked Tom after her win, waiting while half of yeh remaining contenders drifted back to the center of the room for new matchups.

Tom did a brief accounting sweep of the room. "Oh, I reckon... four."

"Four?" she wrinkled her nose. No way was she going to try and stick this out to the end honestly.

Due to space constraints, only two of the remaining four pairs could duel at a time, so Ophelia gleefully returned to her seat. Tom, of course, made quick work of his opponent, surprising literally no one. The only surprise would have been if Avery actually landed a hit. She could see why Tom encouraged these competitions. It gave him yet another chance to prove himself worthy of being followed. People respected power. It's why Dumbledore always found his opinions heard, even the whispered ones.

Meanwhile, power was the only coin her uncle traded in, and even the blind could see how well that worked out for him.

As for the other group, Fenella really put Rabastan in his place. It was difficult to tell if he allowed her the win or not, but no one could dispute the fact that he exited the dual a victim of a half failed Transfiguration into a rabbit. The look came off more disturbing than cute, except for his new set of ears that Ophelia got the impression he enjoyed immensely.

When her turn arrived, she was grateful to discover she'd been matched to a seventh year. She couldn't have asked for someone better qualified to lose to. He checked all the right boxes: older, as far as everyone else was concerned higher educated, a known DADA prodigy. Now. all she had to do was "accidentally" be slow at the draw and hope he didn't choose anything too horrible to disable her with. Matching rabbit ears with Rabastan she could deal with, but if he somehow gave her tentacles? She wouldn't be held responsible for the consequences.

Alas, no one said losing was pleasant.

The most peculiar thing happened when one of the bystanders called for a start, as Rabastan had been too overly preoccupied with his newfound appendages to call it himself. True to her convictions, Ophelia did little more than aim her wand vaguely in her opponent's direction before he went flying back into the group immediately behind him, propelled by some unseen force.

Wait... that wasn't supposed to happen.

Ophelia glanced down at her wand in an instant of puzzled self-doubt. Had she done that? Her trigger finger wasn't that bad, surely, that she didn't even notice?

She snapped out of it with the shake of her head, looking over her shoulder for another suspect. As her eyes zeroed in on Tom, who was slightly too engrossed in conversation with the fourth year beside him on the lounge, she reasoned she could spot a contrived alibi if she saw it, and she was definitely seeing it.

The audacity of him, foiling her attempts at inconspicuousness when he knew quite well why it was necessary. Worse yet, she didn't appreciate having her intentions be so evidently transparent. It was a major blow to her pride, truth be told, that he knew full well her intent to lose. It meant she was becoming predictable, since they both knew her Occlumency bested his Legilimency ten times out of ten.

His only detectable sign of guilt was in the slight crinkle by his eyes that hinted at well restrained laughter. Still deep in conversation, he tilted his head slightly until his eyes caught on hers.

Unable to fight down the urge, she looked him dead on and distinctly mouthed, "Tyrant."

He smiled, a real, true smile like she'd never seen on him before. Sure, there'd been times when she'd seen him come close, but the difference between those and this were as starkly different as that between ice and fire. It lit up his face, transforming him and making him nearly unrecognizable. More human.

It stirred something warm in Ophelia's chest to know she was the one responsible. She couldn't help it. She shook her head and felt a smile slipping onto her own face to match his. It didn't stay long, slipping away as realization struck with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.

She'd messed up. Somewhere along the line, she'd royally made a miscalculation. Somewhere along the line, she'd become just like everyone else. She spent so long looking down on those who would do just about anything for the boy in front of her, but somehow she'd become one of them. Swallowing back the wave of horror that realization brought along, Ophelia decided to focus on more productive things, like how much she was absolutely going to obliterate him in the final round, all earlier reservations be damned. Really, she'd rather get into a staring contest with Tom's trusty basilisk than admit that there was a distinct possibility her feelings for everyone's favorite Slytherin prefect was anything but platonic.

Something soft tickled her cheek, so she turned to quickly snatch it between two fingers.

"Ow!" Rabastan winced, trying to pry his fluffy white ears free. "Watch what you do with those, lady!"

She pulled on his ear, forcing him to lean in close. "That's for your part in making me duel with the rest of you babies," she said, and let go.

Batting her once with the ear for good measure, Rabastan strode of to nurse his wounds, or perhaps be rid of the extra appendages all together.

For her part, Ophelia sighed indignantly and sought out her next opponent: Fenella.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _You know what I'm still salty about? You know that one movie people made about Voldemort, Origins of the Heir? That ending was soooooo ambiguous. Like, I need answerssssssss._**

 ** _Sorry for not updating for awhile. I'm writing like four different things and now school started up again. Ugh._**


	26. XXVI

Ophelia's match against Fenella was an unexpectedly swift one. So, was Tom's match with Avery, for the exact same reason.

Ophelia took position in one corner of the room, facing Fenella, who had her back to Avery, who in turn faced Tom. The problem arose, evidently, because Tom severely overestimated Avery's ability. Instead of blocking Tom's first— and only— attack, like any normal wizard in their right mind, he leapt out of the way as it soared past, leaving Fenella wide open and completely unawares of her impending problem coming up from behind.

Ophelia, however, could see it coming and didn't waste a second reacting. Giving that deflecting the attack wouldn't help Fenella in the slightest, being in between Ophelia's wand and the curse, Ophelia aimed her wand straight at the other girl and fired.

Although Tom was certain Fenella would deny it later, her shriek as she was lifted off her feet and sharply jerked several feet to her left was something straight out of classic theatre, but even more comical was the shift in Ophelia's expression as she realized that Fenella was shooting straight for the wall at less than comfortable wall crashing speeds. At once, Tom could see everyone in the room having the exact same flashback of Ophelia sending Fenella into the wall months earlier with a mix of horrified dread and hopeful amusement. Luckily, Ophelia realized her mistake in time and recovered, stopping her within an inch of crashing distance, all the while leaping to avoid the curse now headed in her own direction.

All said and done, Ophelia seemed to age years in a matter of seconds, no doubt recalling how if she was in this mess for making the mistake of throwing Fenella around once, then she would probably be murdered in her sleep for doing it again.

"You are so lucky," Fenella said when her feet dropped back to solid ground, spearing a finger at Ophelia, then Avery, and finally Tom. "All three of you."

Ophelia eyed Fenella warily. "Er... let's give it a redo."

"Did I ask for a redo?" she snapped and Ophelia took a step back. Funny how someone could see a basilisk and essentially be a fugitive from birth but still get cowed by a single feisty witch. "I lost fair and square. We'd already started when you got me with that charm, and I dropped my wand, regardless of _his_ bumbling."

She spared Avery a look of supreme resentment and marched over to grab him by the arm to cart him off the floor.

"I haven't even lost yet," he protested.

"Oh, shut up. You lost before you even began. Everyone knew it but you."

When Tom turned to face Ophelia, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly was not what he got. Everything about her— even the very air surrounding— turned serious, though he couldn't imagine what prompted such a change.

She wasn't mad at him, surely? He racked his brain for anything he might have done recently to warrant being on the receiving end of such wrath and came up blank.

Okay, that was a lie. He'd done plenty, if he were entirely honest with himself, but nothing she might have discovered in the last ten minutes. Even interfering with her attempts to forfeit the contest had only earned him little more than an exasperated glance.

Had it been Rabastan? Fenella? Somehow he doubted it. Ophelia had an irritating soft spot for the Lestrange, and her relationship with Fenella had only been on the upswing. That, of course, left only him.

How much simpler it would be to just slip inside her mind and see for himself— but to try would be only to invite more trouble. If she was indeed irked with him, that would only prove to increase her ire a thousand fold. As someone with half a dozen good reasons to be mad at, it didn't make much sense to add another.

Somewhere in his periphery, Tom caught Rabastan taking bets and forced himself to block it out. Now was time to focus. At the call to begin, neither moved. Just when Tom began to consider that perhaps this was another ploy of hers to give up, to surrender by not bothering to fight back, she struck.

" _Incendio_!"

Flames burst forth from her wand in one blistering fireball that would have engulfed him and anyone behind him whole had he not conjured a shield at the last second.

Genuinely curious, he asked, "Are you insane?"

Several others shared his feelings on the matter of being burned alive in their own Common Room.

The question barely left his mouth before, through the dissipating haze of smoke and fire, another strike came. Tom deflected it with the same shield he'd used against the first.

She was either mad about something or absolutely insane, Tom decided.

"I told you dueling isn't a game," came a voice to his right, and he whipped his head around at the sound, swinging his arm to deflect yet again.

A hard blow just above his wrist cast his wand towards the floor and then another to his chest had him actually on the floor.

Ophelia stood over him, a satisfied grin on her face, and held her wand to his throat. Leaning forward, she mock whispered, "Beg."

She looked so pleased with herself, Tom almost reconsidered his next move. He granted her the moment to bask in victory, but only the moment, for in the next one he swept her legs out from underneath her. She landed flat on her back, a stunned expression painted across her face. Using his wand to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, Tom bent forward on his knees, one hand holding his weight up beside her head, and spoke in her ear so just she could hear, " _I never beg."_

He kept the proximity for a second longer than strictly necessary before pushing back to his feet.

Ophelia relaxed out of wide eyed shock, accentuating the unparallel blue and black of her mismatched irises, and into narrrow eyed annoyance as she glared at the ceiling.

"Had that been a real duel I would have won," she defended, refusing to look his way on principle.

"Maybe," he conceded, the doubt in his voice palpable, "but you were overconfident."

She overcame her determination to not look at him in order to scoff to his face. "That's adorable, coming from you."

"I'm exactly as confident as I ought to be. I won, after all."

Imagining her required interval for pouting was over, Tom stretched out a hand to help her up.

"Well, I'm sorry to break it you, but you did forget one thing," she admitted somberly, placing her hand in his.

More amused than intrigued, he asked, "Oh? And what's that?"

A devilish grin fell across her lips as she tightened her grip on his hand into a vice. "I'm a notoriously sore loser," she said, and pulled on his arm with all her might until he was dragged with a sharp jerk to the ground beside her.

Without much thought and to prevent himself from falling directly on top of her, her brought down his free arm to swiftly catch his weight, therefor leaving both arms detained. Ophelia had no such inhibitions. One hand still firmly clasped with his above her head, with the other she held her wand to Tom's head, the tip slightly brushing the hair at his temple.

With visible effort, she smoothed her smug smile into something so serious it looked pained and threw his own words right back at him. "I'm exactly as confident as I ought to be."

Tom should have been mad. That was the oldest trick in the book, after all, but anger was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead, from some dark corner of his consciousness came a treacherous awareness of just how close they were. He felt like he could kiss her again, if only for those few inches separating them.

He felt like she was the mistake he didn't mind committing over and over again.

Before he could move, however, Ophelia's hand wrenched away from his with such force he nearly toppled over at the loss of equilibrium.

Blinking rapidly and darting glances behind her, she sat up, looking spooked.

Too close. Tom hissed out a breath. What had he been thinking? And in a room full of other witches and wizards, too. That had been far too close.

"Yeah, I'm not sure who won that," Rabastan said, crouching down beside them, still with an extra set of ears, Tom noted.

Normally, Rabastan's irreplicable talent for getting on peoples nerves didn't really bother him, as it was generally aimed at someone else. This was not one of those times. Tom was less than amused when Rabastan held an ear out and waved it tauntingly at Ophelia, although he shied away when she mimed a pincer with three fingers and directed a meaningful look at the offending ear.

"Tom won, of course," Knott said, coming up from behind and, for seemingly no reason, grabbing one of Rabastan's impressively long whiskers and plucking. "Ophelia cheated."

Rabastan let out an even more impressively foul mouthed string of words.

But then he turned back to Ophelia and collapsed back against her leg, using it as a pillow the same way a wounded soldier might a rock as they lay dying.

"Do you see how they treat me?" he moaned tragically.

She patted his head sympathetically. "There, there."

"Well," Fenella said with an air of finality, giving Rabastan's leg a light kick, "I think _she_ won."

That response took everyone by surprise, until Rabastan said shrewdly, "You're only saying that because she beat you, too."

"And I beat you. What's your point?"

Knowing they could go on like that for hours, Tom stood up, silencing them. "It doesn't matter. Rabastan," he sighed, "your ears are ridiculous."

He muttered the countercurse under his breath and Rabastan reverted back to normal.

"I was actually quite fond of them," Rabastan sighed loudly, massaging the area where the ears had once been. "And it matters very much. I have money riding on who won, you know."

Tom, who did not possess the words to properly convey how little he cared about the money Rabastan had on the line, turned and walked back to one of the couches still pressed up against the wall. Not long after, Ophelia joined him.

"You... you're still wearing that ring," she observed in a way that could almost be considered casual. Almost.

That was the second time she'd asked about it, Tom noted, recalling the first instance at the start of term feast a month prior. The thing hardly seemed special, outside of what he'd done to make it special, of course. Without harboring the bit of his soul and being a token of his heritage, he'd think it near worthless. It was hardly something to gawk at.

Tom slid it easily from his finger, pinching it for examination. No, even then, blinking down at it, he couldn't understand it, couldn't understand her interest.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"Like what?"

"The ring, of course."

She opened her mouth to say something, and then just held it there when nothing came out for the first few moments. Finally, she settled on, "It's really something special."

"It is," he agreed. "Give me your hand."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"Why not?"

"You're impossible."

"You're paranoid."

"You bet I am," she said, and held it out between them at last.

He took it with his own, letting it rest there on his palm. A nearly invisible scar, faded from age, stretched from her first knuckle down to the base of her thumb. Why she never healed it away with magic he'd never know. He didn't like not knowing things.

"Where's this from?" He traced the line in a soft, grazing motion, feeling where the damaged skin puckered up beneath his finger.

"Oh, that?" She wrinkled her nose. "Who knows. I've had it since forever."

"Why not get it healed?"

She shrugged. "Why bother? I got it long before I began with magic. I was still with my mother back then. Besides, I think it adds character." Ophelia flipped their hands over so that his was on top, devoid of scars. "Not all of us can be completely flawless."

"The words themselves sound like a complement, but something tells me you don't mean it that way," Tom noted, looking up to share a wry half-smile.

"I will neither confirm nor deny that claim."

"Of course you won't."

"Wait— What are you doing?" She tried to pull away, mildly alarmed, but he held firm, slipping the Gaunt ring onto the her forefinger.

It slid on easily.

"It suits you," he said. "Far more than it does me."

"When I said the ring was neat I didn't mean— I mean, I wasn't trying to—"

"Guilt me?" he offered.

She nodded.

Tom couldn't help it. He smirked. "You couldn't guilt me if you tried."

Ophelia wasn't dissuaded. "Still, my point stands. You said it was your family's."

She made to take it off only for him to place his hands over hers to stop her.

"What do I care for them?" he asked her seriously. "What have they ever done for me? I don't even know them."

 _I killed them_.

Tom didn't mean to sound spiteful, but it came off that way, and once it was out in the open it was hard to ignore.

Her expression softened, not into pity— something he'd never accept— but into understanding.

"You know," Ophelia began thoughtfully, "my uncle has given me several suspect pearls of wisdom over the years, but I do agree with him on one thing."

Doubting he'd like anything Grindelwald had to say, Tom nonetheless humored her. "What's that?"

"You have to choose your family." Her words only held the barest trace of sadness, overshadowed by a naive hopefullness. "If they happen to share your blood, then you're one of the lucky ones, but often times they won't. Oftentimes, they'll be who you'll least suspect."

"Was he talking about your mother?"

"Yeah..." She shrugged, rueful, as if to brush it off as unimportant. What she couldn't hide was the way her hand tightened beneath his. Then, she looked at Tom and visibly relaxed. "But _I'm_ talking about _you_."


	27. XXVII

It didn't feel right to accept the ring, for many reasons, but Tom refused to let her return it. Besides, it would be a lie to say the idea of seeing— of talking to— Julius wasn't terrifyingly appealing.

Still, that one persistent, nagging thought remained that Tom had no idea what exactly he'd given up, regardless of what he'd said about his family. The stone in his ring was far more precious than he could have ever realized.

On the bright side, Ophelia was at long last confident in the fact that she wasn't just hallucinating. If Tom never had cause to mourn someone, of course the ring didn't effect him. It was a far greater relief than she would have liked to admit to know she hadn't finally lost her mind.

The flip side, of course, was that even if she wasn't actually crazy, she still certainly looked it whenever someone walked in on her in heated conversation with herself. Unfortunately, that wasn't even a theoretical issue. After getting a thorough dressing down from the Fat Lady, who couldn't have known Ophelia was talking to an apparition that may or may not have actually existed and wasn't actually calling her a treacherous, backstabbing rat who's crowning gift to humanity was the moment was she stopped wasting the rest of their oxygen.

In retrospect, Ophelia may have let her temper get away from her there, but Julius deserved it, and if that meant she had to avoid gaining access to the Gryffindor Common Room for the foreseeable future, so be it.

One could only listen to a nonstop stream-of-consciousness-esque attack on their person in quiet for so long. If she were a better person, Ophelia knew she would have let Julius continue on in his rant in obliging silence— she had killed him after all, and if that didn't make you slightly deserving of verbal abuse than nothing did— but she wasn't a better person. For so long she'd been torn to shreds inside from the guilt of doing the worse thing one man could do to another. Well, no longer.

She couldn't say when it happened, exactly. At some point she just got to thinking: "If I could go back and do it over, would I?" The answer to that was startlingly simple: no. It didn't require even a second's thought or hesitation. Of course she'd kill him. It went beyond reason and logic, rooted more in instinct than anything else.

If it came down to it and she was faced with the decision to choose anyone over her uncle, she'd choose her uncle every time. Julius tried to kill Grindelwald. She killed Julius. The math was so easy, she never needed to pause to calculate it.

That wasn't to say she yet agreed with her uncle. On anything. She didn't need to in order to know she didn't want him to die.

The upside of arguing with Julius, however, was that if she wasn't in the mood to talk it out she could just slip the ring into her pocket. She never ran the risk of not having the last word, even if he possibly— maybe— deserved it more than she did.

Why listen to him at all? Was she a masochist? Some kind of glutton for punishment? If only. She simply liked to see him, to memorise his face and remember details she'd forgotten about him over the passing of time.

And, well, yes. Punishment did play a small part in it all, if only for selfish reasons. Being praised for killing Julius never sat right with her, despite knowing she'd do it again if need be. Being yelled at was refreshing, almost. No one liked being put in their place, but after so long a part of her felt absolved by it.

So after the "incident" with the Fat Lady, Ophelia only acknowledged Julius outside the castle, far from any portraits or persons capable of overhearing. Did he appreciate being ignored most hours of the day? Yes, actually. It gave him more time to rant uninterrupted, though she did have to remind herself to take the ring off before bed. She made the mistake of forgetting to that first night and to say the result was unpleasant was an understatement. Julius wasn't stupid. He knew outright shouting in her ear would just provoke Ophelia into removing the ring from her finger. No, he talked until just before she was fully awake and then lapsef into innocent silence, so she'd think she'd been roused by natural causes. His game ended by the third time, but at that point it was too late. It was nearly morning and she was abominably sleep deprived.

By day eight, Julius's anger had mostly evaporated, or else he was just conserving that rage to unleash later. They actually talked.

She didn't know if he was real or just some dark magic of the ring meant to deceive people. It hardly mattered. It _should_ have mattered more, but the more they spoke the less she was inclined to actually care.

A dark corner of her mind did wonder at that. Her uncle was never the type for bedtime stories, but _The Tales Of Beedle the Bard,_ specifically the tale of the three brothers, had been an exception. An obsession. She could recite the story word for word backwards, forwards, and translated into German in her most boring nightmares. As a result, she couldn't very well ignore the part where the second brother more or less went insane due to the Resurrection Stone. Was he crazy because of the stone or did he see things that weren't there because he was crazy. What came first, the dragon or the egg?

Details had likely been embellished over a few hundred years, Ophelia eventually decided. She wasn't obsessed, like he'd eventually become. She could let go of the ring any time she wanted. Any. Time. She just didn't want to, yet.

The day would have been peaceful, were not for the twittered screeches of a small flock of ravens. Ophelia watched idly as the enchanted songbirds fluttered outside the staff room window, aligning themselves into a new, inventive curse word every few seconds for the professors' benefit. Every once and awhile, they changed formation to specifically insult a member of staff, usually Apollyon Pringle.

Ophelia smiled to herself, wondering who was possibly behind it and sincerely hoping they got away before they could be caught. With that thought in mind, she hastened her own steps, lest she be considered the perpetrator.

It was nonetheless a welcome distraction from Julius's new hyper-fixation: a step-by-step outline of how she could "save the world" by killing Grindelwald herself.

"You're the only one he trusts enough to get that close without his guard rising," and "Think of all the lives you'd be saving just by taking his." The clincher was "I'll even be willing to forgive you for what you did to me."

She almost preferred it when he was plain furious.

"I think I'd prefer silence over the sound of your voice," she grumbled, more to herself than him. "I'm not killing anybody. You might as well come to terms with it now. Besides, I don't even know where he is."

Ophelia could feel his side-eye burning a hole through the side of her head. "I hardly think that would be an issue for long," he surmised, and she couldn't disagree.

As she considered various means of ducking out of that particular conversation until he moved onto something more pleasant, a movement near the forest caught her eye. Normally, she wouldn't have minded. Let them sneak into the forbidden forest for all she cared; she wasn't their mother. If they found trouble there, well, that was entirely on them. They got the same warning as everyone else.

But this wasn't "normally". This was Tom, an immediate cause to be instantly suspicious. Whatever business he had kneeling at the edge of the forest— without his usual entourage, no less— could not have spelled a nice, stress free future for her. For him to deliberately break free from his shadows meant he was up to no good. Again.

It was more for the sake of the greater good than his own that Ophelia stalked his way, arms crossed. Leaves crunched noisily beneath her feet and even though he must have heard her coming up behind him he didn't move.

"I'm not sure what evil you're planning this time, but I'm morally obligated to tell you to it's a bad idea," Ophelia announced when she drew close.

Looking at her over his shoulder, he shook his head. "Evil? How little you think of me. I'm a model wizard. Slughorn says so."

She snorted. "Slughorn says a lot of things. Would he have said that if he actually knew what you got up to in your free time?"

His brows furrowed in mock puzzlement. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"No one's buying that innocent act," she said, laughing despite herself.

The corners of Tom's lips curled upward slightly. "That's where you're wrong. Most do believe it, in fact."

She grimaced. "Unfortunately. Now, what are you actually up to?"

He waved her over, a sly gleam in his eyes. "Would you like to see for yourself?"

Ophelia knew that look well enough to know it meant nothing good, but couldn't beat back her curiosity.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Julius muttered behind her, watching as she stepped over a pair of thick roots snaking out from the dense village of trees.

Tom murmured something she couldn't understand at the same time that she peered over his shoulder. Nothing was there. She shot him an inquiring glance.

"Are you just admiring the grass?" she asked, not bothering to mask the sarcasm.

"No," he said, and dropped his gaze down to her feet at the exact same moment she felt it.

Something crawling up her leg.

Three somethings, to be exact.

Not generally the shrieking type, the sound that tore from her mouth surprised even her. She backed up too quickly, tripping over the root she'd only just stepped over in her haste to put as much distance between herself and the three serpents as possible. They didn't give chase, but she scrambled backwards on her hands a bit for good measure.

Only then did she hear the laughing.

"I'm glad this amused you," she told both Tom and Julius, giving each a specially curated dirty look.

"I didn't think you'd fall," Tom replied without an iota of remorse, the shadow of a smile still on his face.

"You would, too, if your only other meaningful interaction with a snake was of it trying to swallow you whole," she groused, slowly, very slowly, sitting up.

Just like that, all humor dropped from his expression, making Ophelia wish she hadn't brought it up.

"Why were you out here talking to snakes anyway?" she asked to break the newfound tension.

"I can't very well talk to them inside the castle, can I."

She rolled her eyes and fell back onto the grass, watching the clouds drift past the canopy of trees. "That's not what I meant and you know it. Why are you talking to them at all?"

"You didn't think I got all my information through prophetic visions, did you? They spy for me."

"Don't you just use Legilimency?"

He hissed something at the serpents and they slithered off, two towards the castle and one towards the forest. To Ophelia, he spoke slowly, as though explaining something very simple to someone even simpler. "You must realize I can't very well use Legilimency all the time. What of the people I rarely see? What of the professors? The things said behind closed doors and in the safety of common rooms? Using Legilimency was what got me in trouble with you in the first place."

"Have you considered not invading people's privacy?" she suggested.

"No," he replied in short.

"As your conscience, it's my responsibility to tell you you should."

"You're my conscience now?" He sidled up beside her until they were hip to hip, him sitting and her laying back, sounding like he severely doubted she was up for the challenge. "You don't sound particularly stern about my means of gathering information."

Ophelia waved a hand lazily between them, before letting it flop back onto the grass. "Of all the dastardly deeds you could be doing, this is nothing. Your conscience isn't paid enough to prevent something this minor."

"Sounds like an excuse."

"You talk a big game for someone who only got second place in that rigged duel. Let's see..."Ophelia pretended to think hard. "Who won again? I can't seem to recall."

"I'm afraid your confidence is gravely misguided."

She shrugged. "It's just the facts."

"Do you want to test that?"

"There's nothing to test." Knowing he was watching her, she made a grand show of examining a bowtruckle peaking its leafy little head around a fresh sprig of greens with far more interest than strictly necessary. "I beat you once, I can do it again... Probably."

"That wasn't exactly a fair match," he mused, twirling his phoenix feather wand slowly though his fingers.

"What can I say? Life isn't fair," she said, enjoying herself immensely and not doing much to hide it.

The wand came to a halting stop, resting loosely in Tom's palm. He leaned closer, dark eyes sparking with equal parts amusement and challenge. "I won't even need this, you know. I won't even need a wand."

Now, Ophelia couldn't help but imagine _his_ confidence was misplaced. Still, she humoured him, nudging his leg with hers. "Oh? Do tell. How do you plan on doing that?"

A hand came down beside her head, blocking her view of the rambunctious young bowtruckle. She turned again to face the sky, but a wide expanse of blue was not what greeted her.

"Like this," Tom said, and pressed his smile to hers.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Sorry for the long delay! I've been busy with summer classes, my triwizard tournament story, and just plain writers block, if I'm to tell the truth. Hopefully it was worth the wait. I couldn't quit figure this one out, probably because I lack morale tbh. Harsh reviews really aren't good for my confidence with this sort of thing... But don't worry! I'm over it! It just means I need to keep on improving!_**


	28. XXVIII

"Absolutely disgusting," Julius sighed solemnly. "I'd rather die than watch this soap opera play out." As though a thought just occurred to him, he snapped his fingers. "Oh wait! I already did. Will my suffering never end?"

Ophelia dutifully tuned him out. Contrary to what some might believe, it wasn't what she would consider ideal to have her own personal Peanut Gallery following her around like a ghostly buzzing mosquito. As it was, she was just a bit preoccupied.

Laying as she was upon the cushion of grass, she couldn't pull away from Tom, not that that was even remotely what instinct called for. Not. One. Bit. Instead, her let her eyes flutter closed and fell head first into the moment.

The last time he'd kissed her there'd been fire and sparks. Scorching heat and crackling electricity fizzling across her skin. This time was different. It was softer. Sweeter. Less possessive and more... peaceful. There wasn't an individual word left in the English language to describe it.

It was the type of kiss girls could only dream of in unrealistic fantasies, one that wouldn't necessarily have been out of place in the center of countless epics. If Hellen of Troy had the face to launch a thousand ships, the raw, breathtaking feeling brewing deep in Ophelia's chest in time with her heartbeat was more than enough to sink them all.

Heartbreaking. That's what it was. There was a word after all, and Ophelia found it just as their lips parted to reclaim desperately needed air. Heartbreaking, because that's just who he was. A murderer. A man with half a soul and dubious morals. Heartbreaking, because of who _she_ was. A coward. A girl without the nerve to do what needed to be done and even more dubious loyalties. Heartbreaking, because that single kiss promised so much, yet offered so little.

The most heartbreaking of all? It made her forget all that just long enough to believe everything would be alright, painting the world a rose hue where their only problems were who would make Head Boy and Head Girl next year.

Unthinking, she stretched her arms up around Tom's neck and brought his lips back to her own. She could feel his lips curve up into a smile at that, sending a tingling warmth shooting through her bloodstream down to her fingers and the very tips of her toes.

Julius groaned. "Seriously?"

A vindictive thought struck. Why, if she casually chucked the ring into the Forbidden Forest, so deep no one would ever find it, she'd never have to listen to his heckles again. That would certainly be that. Goodbye, Julius. Go annoy someone else. Unfortunately, the logistics of that plan didn't look so grand, but just the thought of the instant gratification was nearly enough to change her mind.

She grudgingly let the urge pass.

A dull hum of humour rumbled through Tom from where they were still connected by her arms and Ophelia frowned, sure whatever amused him would prove far less amusing for her.

"Can I help you?" she groused.

Note: it was not a genuine offer, and Tom knew it, easily detecting the sarcastic undertones. He wasn't a complete fool, after all, although he might have argued he wasn't a fool at all. Too bad Ophelia was quite certain about his fool status and wasn't inclined to change her mind in the near— or distant, for that matter— future. Tom, naturally, didn't get a vote on the matter.

"As I said, I didn't have to use my wand after all," he whispered, for too self-assured for Ophelia's liking, and pulled away, lifting her into a sitting position when she didn't release him.

She didn't attempt to hide how she rolled her eyes. Better that he saw exactly what she thought of _that_. "It must be _oh-so_ difficult being right all the time."

"You have no idea," he agreed.

"Don't make me hex you."

"With what wand?" he asked, revealing two wands, one pheonix feather and one dragon heartsting, lying flat on his palm.

She extricated herself to pat at her pockets, as if she weren't staring directly at her wand in his traitorous hands, and came up empty. "You thief!"

"An opportunist," he corrected.

"Give it back!"

She took a daring swipe to reclaim it, but he was already withdrawing them out of her reach, smugly angling the wands over there heads.

Unamused, she crossed her arms. "What are you? Twelve?"

Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his dark eyes as he shrugged. "You dropped your guard. Consider this," he seemed to search for the correct word, "revenge."

"Revenge," she echoed, outraged. "For what?"

"For thinking you could best me in a duel and get away with it," he explained, like it were the most obvious thing in the world.

That explanation did nothing to ease her outrage. "This is bullying, you know."

"You think so?" he mused, unrepentant.

"I do think so. Now, give me my wand!"

At the last word, Ophelia lunged, banking on the element of surprise. As it turned out, the element of surprise wasn't all that surprising, considering both Tom _and_ Julius anticipated it coming.

Julius had just began to say, "Whatever you're thinking, don't," when she acted directly against his warning.

III

Now, Tom quickly foresaw that Ophelia would eventually make a move to reclaim her wand. He didn't need to be Merlin to predict that much.

What he didn't predict was being unceremoniously tackled to the ground. The sensation of his back colliding with the loosely packed earth stole his breath away. His arms instinctively flew down, wands and all, around her waist to steady them both before she could do any further damage.

Ophelia still managed to, in spite of his efforts. The majority of the trouble she ever caused was with her mouth and this instance was no different. She kissed him, the third time in a matter of minutes, as though they hadn't spent months dancing deliberate circles around each other. It gave Tom no opportunity to catch his breath, but it was the kind of unforeseen complication he took little issue with.

And his life had been so full of complications since they first met.

Too soon, she withdrew, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Tom became immediately wary.

"You think you're _so_ smart," she said, "but two can play at that game."

She twirled her wand with obvious relish between her fingers, so he couldn't possibly miss the fact that it was no longer in his possession. Too much relish, evidently, because it twirled straight out of her hands, catapulting itself in a high arc above them, and landed in some of the better cut grass several feet away.

They both took a second to stare at it in heavy silence.

"You were saying?" Tom prompted. "Something about how smart I am?"

She grimaced, then, seemingly remembering herself, composed her features and rolled back onto her feet. " _That_ ," she wagged a finger vaguely in the direction of her wand, "is not the point."

"Is that so?"

"The _point_ ," she continued, obviously pretending he hadn't spoken, "is that I beat you at your own game. I took your own tactics and used them against you. And you. Still. Fell. For. It."

Tom considered taking the high road and letting the slight pass, although only briefly. He wasn't known for his charity, after all. Not breaking eye contact, he aimed his wand at hers and clearly enunciated, " _Accio wand."_

She scowled as they watched it fly into his hand. "You're a miserable wretch, Tom Riddle, and, I can't stress this enough, I sincerely despise you."

Tom smothered down the sharp thrill he felt every time his name left her lips to unwrap the rest of that less thrilling sentence.

"You have quite a funny way of showing it," he noted wryly.

Without batting an eyelash, she retorted, "Don't let a few measly kisses go to your head. You should see how I greet people I actually like."

That was certainly a troubling thought.

Ophelia frowned at him— no, past him, towards the castle— and squinted her eyes. Tom followed her gaze over his shoulder only to see one of his serpents slipping down the steps with a singleminded focus to return to him.

"Why'd you call it back already?" she asked.

"I didn't," he replied shortly.

The dark-bodied adder wove intricately through the grass so that Tom momentarily lost sight of it, only to reappear moments later, far closer. No doubt about it. It was headed their way.

"There's something wrong," Tom and Ophelia said at the same time, eyes locking.

Something had to have happened for one of Tom's spies to seek him out prematurely, but now that he was paying attention it was obvious something was amiss, though he couldn't consciously tell what it was. The awareness came more as a feeling than anything else.

He hated not knowing. His feet carried him towards the snake, while Ophelia's overtook him, going instead directly to the source. The serpent was confused when Tom spoke to it, unable to articulate exactly what was happening. A reptile was still just a reptile in the end, incapable of complex, nuanced thought. Besides, his snakes were useful in that they were small enough to be overlooked if they stuck to dark corners. That didn't make them invisible. This one had been apparently unable to creep within eavesdropping distance in the too-brightly lit Great Hall to ascertain anything besides a bizarre commotion involving half a dozen people the snake didn't recognize plus another half a dozen it did, including the Headmaster.

Tom's frown deepened. Nothing good could come of that.

Ophelia pulled open the door by its large brass handle and peaked inside. Just as quickly, she yanked it shut and hissed, " _The Ministry_. The Minister of Magic is _here!"_

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Sorry that I haven't updated in like two weeks. I've been on holiday in York and Leicester visiting my aunt and my grandmother since we recently got knews that my aunt has stage four cancer and my kid cousin isn't much better off. Needless to say, I've been busy, but what else is new?_**

 ** _Also, I found it extraordinarily amusing when I was writing that the ring /stone ends up eventually lost in the forest anyway._**


	29. XXIX

Ophelia placed an ear to the thick wood, but either the door was too thick or it was enchanted against eavesdroppers, because she couldn't hear a thing besides the rustle of Tom's robes skimming the ground as he joined her.

A hand found the small of her back as he said, "Calm down. We don't know why they're here, yet," but he the tightness in his expression was far from reassuring.

"That's true." She swallowed. "They could be here for you, as well."

She'd been trying for humour there, but it fell flat. Tom just shook his head.

"Doubtful. The Ministry adores me."

Had anyone else said that, she might have suggested they had narcissistic personality disorder. Unfortunately, Tom was probably right. Not everyone received a reward for contributions to the school, after all.

"I'm going in," she decided, and pressed her palm against the door, pushing it open again.

Quick as lightning, Tom darted forward to pull it closed by the handle. "Oh, no you are _not_."

She blinked, sure she'd misheard. Had he not learned his lesson about trying to tell her what to do yet?

"Come again?" she asked.

Tom would have had to be deaf to miss the dangerous note of defiance in her voice.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" he hissed, as though that was indeed a distinct possibility.

"Considering they might be here for someone I'm rather fond of— myself— I think I have a vested interest in going in there to figure out if that's true or not!"

"And we will figure that out," Tom agreed tersely, still holding tight to the brass door handle. "But I am going inside, alone, without you." Like that wasn't enough clarification, he added, "By myself. Is that clear?"

Ophelia crossed her arms. "Of course. Go right on ahead."

His stiff posture eased, but only slightly. "Stay out of sight," he instructed, and slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him.

For her part, Ophelia began to count to ten. At five, her patience dwindled and she decided he was probably far enough away for her to follow.

As the old saying goes, she thought, it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

Besides, he deserved to be duped if he believed she'd actually take a back seat on this. It wasn't just her being impulsive or impetuous, either. If the Ministry were really there looking for her, then her best chance of evading them was from within the castle. At least inside she could sneak away in some hidden passage, like the one they used to sneak her into Hogsemeade. Outside of it, what was she expected to do? Wander blindly through the Forbidden Forest until she got far enough away to Apparate?

No. Thank. You.

"This is a place of learning, Minister. I do not appreciate you terrorizing my students," she heard Professor Dumbledore say from the next room, his surface calm bellying a serious warning.

"We wouldn't have to if you'd simply do something! The public is in outcry. They demand we do _something_ , follow every lead. Well, Dumbledore, this is a lead," Leonard Spencer-Moon, the Minister of Magic, said with a note of finality.

Headmaster Dippet stood beside Dumbledore, and from her vantage point creeping around the perimeter of the Great Hall, Ophelia could just make out his flustered expression. "You can't believe she'd be here, Leonard. Surely if Grindelwald wanted the child educated he'd send her to the Durmstrang Institute, not Hogwarts."

"Grindelwald was expelled from Durmstrang," a Ministry witch pointed out.

"That's neither here nor there," the Minister said, and though Ophelia couldn't see him, she imagined he waved them off. "What matters is that we have information saying she is here, right beneath our very noses."

"If I may ask," Dumbledore cut in cordially, "who is the source? That sort of thing matters when determining credibility, you see."

Ophelia heard more than enough to determine that her time in Hogwarts had come to an abrupt end and was almost close enough to bolt down the corridor when an arm reached out of nowhere— no, out of a tapestry— and pulled her, silently struggling, into inky darkness.

"Never _you_ mind about the source!" the Minister said, while she struggled against the unknown assailant. Both hands flew up to her face tearing relentlessly at the hand holding tight over her mouth, cutting her off into silence. "As far as we're concerned, for her to have snuck into Hogwarts as a student she must have had help, and we already know of at least one person here with both the ties to Grindelwald and enough pull to merge her into the fold unnoticed, Dumbledore. Don't think we've forgotten."

The air grew heavy as the weight of that thinly veiled accusation sunk in, then several people spoke all at once.

"You _dare_ accuse—" Professor Kettleburn started, the rest of his sentence drowned out by Slughorn sputtering, "Now, now, Leonard. You were always a brilliant pupil, but this really—"

"I told you to wait outside."

That last voice wasn't one of the many arguing in the next room, but instead close enough for her to feel warm breath fanning across her cheek right by her ear. Ophelia stopped struggling and turned her head just enough to make out Tom's face, obscured by shadows and looking far from pleased. Rather reluctantly, he lowered his hand from her mouth.

"You only asked if I'd understood what you'd said, not if I planned on obeying. A rookie mistake on your part." She twisted to face him fully, just in time to watch his eyes narrow at her excuse. "And, really, could you think of no other less kidnap-y ways of getting me into this corridor?"

He ignored the jab, focusing again on the dispute settling in the other room to hear Professor Dippet say in a voice brittle with age, "I have only the highest faith in my professor's, Minister, as well as everyone else in my castle."

"Then, if you are telling the truth and the girl isn't here, it hurts no one if we search anyway," Moon countered.

The headmaster hesitated. "The girl... She has a name, Minister," he reminded him, so gentle he sounded like he might shatter. "She is a person innocent of any crimes her relatives commit, much like you or I. What... What is it you plan on doing to her when you find her?"

"Not so innocent," Moon rationalized. "She has evaded authorities for years. That's a crime in and of itself, plus several accounts say she's aided Grindelwald on numerous occasions."

"That is not an answer," Dumbledore noted, just as genial as before the Minister accuses him of treason.

"It is not your jobs to assess her crimes, nor what we do when we capture criminals!" Moon exclaimed with exasperation. "It is to teach and to stay out of our way."

"But it is also our job to protect our students," Dumbledore said.

Quick as a whip, an Auror asked, "So you admit she's here?"

"Of course she's not here!" Slughorn blustered before anyone else could get a word in. "Do you think I'd miss a student like that? I'd sense her from half a village away. I have a sense for this kind of thing, as you well know, Leonard. It was my own recommendation that got you your first job in the Ministry!"

"Again, if you're so sure she's not here, it will do no harm for us to check."

They all turned to the Headmaster, who looked uncharacteristically grave.

At length, he sighed, "Very well."

A sharp clap pierced through the room, followed by the slapping sound of feet dispersing across the Great Hall and through the corridors.

"Time to go," Tom whispered.

Ophelia didn't need telling twice. She let him take her by the wrist and drag her down the passage, out a portrait on the other side, they moved in synch, deftly rerouting anytime the patter of footsteps sounded down one of the many halls.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He didn't respond, just squeezed her hand tighter, to the point that it bridged on painful. She flexed each finger individually to fight off the numbness creeping in from the loss of blood flow.

No one could ignore someone with quite the cutting focus of Tom, Ophelia thought with more than a small degree of annoyance, and continued to let him guide her up a set of winding stairs to the second floor. Only when they neared the bathroom did the penny drop. She slowed until Tom resorted to physically dragging her, her heels skidding on the polished floors.

"We are not going to hide in the—" she winced at the sound of her own too-loud voice and continued in a hush, "— _the Chamber of Secrets_!"

"Correct. _We_ aren't hiding. _You_ are."

Her eyes flashed. "You know very well what I meant and it wasn't that."

They froze, their eyes locking at the sound of voices coming from the exact same direction they were heading. Ophelia mentally calculated the odds of reaching the bathroom in time, which was looking more and more appealing by the second. Rounding up, it seemed suspiciously like a nice, round zero.

"Looks like you lucked out," Julius said at a normal volume, making Ophelia's bones nearly jump out of her skin. He'd been so quiet she'd nearly forgotten he was there, ever present. Ever watching, and, although as far she knew there'd been no Seers in the Grindelwald line, at least that she knew of, sometimes when she caught him staring she felt a premonition of sorts. An eerie chill she passed off as guilt for being the one to end his life. Of course he'd be bitter about being murdered. "You won't be hiding in the Chamber after all. They'll catch you _long_ before that."

"Okay, backwards it is," she decided, and started pulling Tom down the corridor from which they'd just come.

He didn't object, or he didn't at first, until they noticed the rising tide of steps growing in front of them as well. Their focus swiveled back an forth at the sound of people closing in, trapping them from both sides, invisible walls sliding closer by the second. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

"Like cornered mice," Julius said, more amused than sympathetic.

III

"Shut up," Ophelia muttered, quiet enough that she might have been talking to herself.

"I didn't say anything."

She looked at him, really looked at him, eyes alit with grim intensity. "I know. That wasn't meant for you."

There wasn't any time to ask her to elaborate on that frankly dubious admission. There wasn't time for much of anything. With nowhere else to retreat to, he backed her into the wall, pressing her into the cold stone behind him with one hand, while flicking his wand between both ends of the corridor, waiting for time to run out. Waiting to be caught.

His fingers tightened around the smooth wood of his wand until they trembled and burned. Fury sliced through his caution. Staying there, frozen, weak, ensured only that they'd be caught by twice the number of people, so he grit his teeth and pressed onward, returning the way they came. There was still a chance they didn't know what Ophelia looked like.

His wand wipped to the ready, a curse already formed on his tongue, when the first person turned into his field of vision. He was so focused on eliminating the obstacle in his path that he didn't bother to take in their identity, not until Ophelia tackled into his arm, sending the spell wide.

"Is that any way to treat someone who's been tracking you like— like an _owl_?" Rabastan asked, affronted. "Had my darling Ophelia not been there to save me, who knows what grisly fate you had in store."

"Be quiet, you," Fenella said, appearing out of thin air to elbow him in the side. "I'll show you a grisly fate if you don't get on with it." She blew a lock of ebony hair out of her face and faced Tom and Ophelia, sizing them up. "So it's true, then. You really are related to him. Funny, I wouldn't have guessed."

Ophelia didn't waver, affecting an award-winning expression of befuddlement. "Guessed what?"

Fenella answered with a condescending snort. "Please, drop the act. We both know you don't have the time and I don't have the patience. Now, strip."

Then, Fenella was right in front of her, tearing off Ophelia's robes, darting looks over their shoulders every few seconds as she shoved Ophelia's arms through her own robes of Slytherin green. It struck Tom that they must know. Somehow they'd found out about Ophelia's connection to Grindelwald and the Ministry's dangerous interest. While Fenella slid on Ophelia's Gryffindor robes, looking as though it was about as flattering as a potato sack covered in bubotuber puss, Rabastan stepped up beside Tom, still rubbing at his injured side.

"The whole school knows," he explained. "I mean, we," he drew a line between himself and Fenella, "were eavesdropping of course. Rookie mistake for the Ministry to air out their dirty laundry in the middle of the Great Hall where anybody could hear. But they had eyes on them the second they stepped out through old Everard's fire, and word travels fast. And you know what I thought first? I thought, ' _Wow, I'm surprised Tom didn't know about Grindelwald's niece slumming it at Hogwarts. I, a delightful and loyal friend, should go tell him_.' And then I realised, there was no way in hell you missed that. I'd stake Fenella's life on it."

"Can't stake your own life, can you?" Fenella muttered mutinously under her breath, pulling her second arm through.

"So, the obvious conclusion after that was that my dear, lovely Ophelia must have been far more interesting than I ever gave her credit for. Naturally a girl would need to have a murderous relative for you to show any interest."

Rabastan clapped his palm to his forehead in the universal " _What was I thinking_?" pose.

Fenella wrinkled her nose at her hair, pinching a long, copper strand between her fingers with extreme distaste. She spared a glance at Ophelia, who, despite her evident bewilderment, had donned Fenella's robes without complaint.

"Too long," she sighed. "I suppose it can't be helped. Would you mind? I don't trust Rabastan within six leagues of my hair."

She threw all hair in a great sheet over her shoulder, her back to Tom, and waited. Having caught on to the ploy at work, he didn't think twice about severing her hair to just below her shoulder blades and vanishing the evidence of their deceit. Before he could continue, however, she stepped away and tapped her wand to her head. A stream of silver shot through her scalp, binding and smothering the copper from her hair until there was none left, just waves of gray.

"Who'd have thought dyeing my hair so often to infuriate my father would have a practical purpose," she mused. "Although... this will definitely top the list. He's going to butcher me when he sees, and he definitely will. He's the Minister's aide, you know. I can practically see the blood vessels popping in his face already."

"I don't think silver is really your colour, Fen, but it'll have to do. Come on!" Rabastan weaved her arm through his in a faux imitation of how a proper gentleman might escort a lady, herding her past Tom and Ophelia, pausing just once to lavish Ophelia with an over-the-top declaration of his undying love.

She didn't even blink at his confession. She'd been a victim to one of those declarations every week for the past year, as were most of the women at Hogwarts, including the ninety year old Arithmacy professor. Rabastan was widely considered by faculty and students alike as a menace.

"I can't let them get involved," she said, finally snapping back to her senses. "They can't get into trouble because of me. This is serious. This is—"

"Their choice," Tom cut her off, and dragged her off down away from where the other two left. "You're doing them a favour. They prefer it this way. Nothing makes them happier than to make their parent's life unliveable, and pretending to be you for half the Ministry to chase after is simply the most effective way to do it."

"If you say so," she replied, letting the matter drop, though he could tell she didn't like it.

"I think we should split up, too," she blurted out as they walked, eyes fixed low, past a mixed group of whispering Ravenclaw and Slytherin third-years.

"That's nice," said Tom, looking both ways for trouble before slipping into a passage hidden behind a portrait of a weeping widow.

"I'm serious."

"You also think that it would be a good idea for Alice Crouch and Ephiriam Longbottom to get married, so your judgement is suspect at best."

"I'm not kidding."

"Neither am I. He'd never survive her."

A striped gray cat sprinted down the passage and stopped abruptly at Tom's feet, staring fixedly up at him and flicking its tail. Another came up beside the first, and another, and another, their eyes glistening like crescent moons in the gloom.

Ophelia stepped into the tunnel after Tom, took one look at felines, and promptly stumbled back out. " _Kneazles_!" she cursed. "We have to get out of here before their handlers catch up."

Too late. They already had. A ray of light crept through the other end of the passage, illuminating the kneazles in a harsh silhouette, only to vanish as a shadow cut them back into darkness.

"I think they've found something!" the woman called back to her associates.

Ophelia's hand stretched out over his shoulder, jerking him backwards into the corridor. "I said, let's _go_!"

They hadn't even turned a corner before the portrait creeped open again and kneazles began nipping at their heels, their handlers not far behind.

"Kneazles are usually pets," she explained, gasping for breath as they reached a dead end and were forced to backtrack to descend down a flight of stairs, aware they were on perfect view for anyone to fire down spells from above. "But some lunatic decided they could be trained to help magical law enforcement, since they're adept at detecting suspicious individuals."

"This has gone on long enough." As his foot connected with the lowermost step, Tom spun around on his heel and hissed, " _Serpensortia_!"

A long, slender snake shot head-to-tail from the tip of his wand, landing with a lunge in front of one nearest snarling kneazles. The strike missed its mark, but only just.

"What are you doing?" Ophelia demanded, though Tom thought it quite obvious. "If it bites them they'll die!"

"So?" He ushered her forward, taking care to position himself between Ophelia and their pursuers, especially after a spell grazed over her shoulder, slicing through the fabric of her robes. He added tensely, "That's the whole point."

"We're not trying to hurt them!"

"Maybe you're not. They certainly don't mind hurting us. I'm just returning the favour."

"The people are one thing!" she protested. "Those poor kneazles are just doing what they're told."

In a less time-sensitive situation, Tom might have stopped and stared. "You value those animals' lives more than— never mind. I don't care. I'm sure I don't want to know."

Ophelia jiggled doorknob after doorknob as they ran, until they finally came upon one that was unlocked and fell inside. Tom crossed the room in a few short strides, searching desperately for another means of escape, or at the very least some place to hide Ophelia. It was in this analysis that he realised they weren't entirely alone.

"So it seems the rumours are true. I thought surely they were false this time. For Grindelwald's child to be here, of all places... but now that I look at you, the resemblance is uncanny."

Tom's wand was out, aimed squarely at Walburga Black's heart. Her dark, hooded eyes roved over them both slowly, unhurried and unimpressed, stopping at the wand. Of all the rooms in the castle, they had to find the one with the only woman who didn't fall flat at Tom's feet.

She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.

"Stay where you are," Tom barked, fully intending to rearrange some of her finer features if she took another step closer.

Ophelia, having locked the door, turned slowly with her hands in the air to send Tom a warning look that clearly said she'd rearrange some of his finer features if he did anything rash.

"I'm... I'm not his child," she told her, sparing anxious looks at the door, as though expecting the Minister of Magic to burst through at any second.

Walburga disregarded Tom's warning entirely. She stalked closer and closer, until Tom came to the decision that he'd curse her to oblivion if she didn't halt soon, Ophelia's wishes be damned. Just when he'd resolved to do it, though, she stopped, mere feet away from Ophelia.

Outside, the shouts grew louder. Doors banged open, like they'd been blasted off their hinges, one after another.

"I don't believe you." Walburga leaned in, both hands cupped like vices on Ophelia's shoulders, and whispered into her ear, "Grindelwald will always find an ally in The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

Ophelia looked stricken, frozen in place, as Walburga pushed past her out the door. Harsh shouts rung down the corridor as the most formidable Black gave the Ministry's best a piece of her mind. The distraction was enough to allow Tom and Ophelia to slip away.

Tom sensed her confliction. To accept the help of someone who supported Grindelwald, who's sole reason for helping her was because they believed in what Grindelwald stood for and thought aiding her aided him, felt wrong. Tom, of course, couldn't have cared less. As far as he was concerned, the ends justified the means, but he still knew it weighed heavy on her heart, because he knew her. He knew how her mind worked, as illogical as he thought it was.

Soon enough, Tom could see it. They were so close to their escape, the statue of the crone almost within touching distance. He reached around the back for the lever and pulled, watching as the entrance to the tunnel slid into view.

"Okay, you first."

Tom knew what she was going to say a second before she said it. It was written clear as moonlight on her face.

"I'm going alone, Tom."

They didn't have time for this.

"No. I said I'd protect you, and I plan on doing just that."

"Tom, I..." she shook her head, an indescribable heaviness building between them. "We're not the same people we were when you promised that. I'm different now. You're different. I won't hold you to those words. I don't need to be protected anymore. I haven't for a long time now, thanks to you. You helped me see that." Seeing his stormy expression, she continued, "It's for your own good. You'll get over this sooner rather than later. People move on far quicker than they'd like to imagine."

"This conversation is a waste of time," Tom retorted with a roll of the eyes, something he never did before he met her. "I won't get over you. You told me it's who we choose, not who we're born to that matter. You said we can choose our family, and I choose you."

She paused and Tom knew then he'd won. With painful slowness, her hand dropped from the stone arm of the statue. Three steps had her closing the distance between them and wrapping both arms tight around his torso. Before he knew it, his own arms automatically fell around her as well, pulling her tight enough that he could feel her erratic heart beat against his rib cage.

"I know," she whispered into his robes just as the world began to sway. "I chose you, too."

Abruptly, the strength fled his legs in a rush. "You... you cursed me."

Ophelia didn't respond. He watched rather than felt her lower him gently to the ground, watched her expression as, with a devastatingly sweet touch, she brought his head to rest against the wall, leaving him immobile in a sitting position.

"You don't understand what it is you're trying to do, but I know better, so I can't let you do it. I can't take you away from all this." Her voice cracked, fraying at the edges. "I won't ruin your life."

He wanted desperately to refute her, but he couldn't even move his lips.

He couldn't open his eyes. Before sleep swept into its relentless tide, though, he could have sworn he felt a heavyhearted kiss upon his brow, as soft and fleeting as the gust of a butterfly's wings.

And when he awoke, she was long gone.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Who knew that professor Dippet was in his 300's when he died? I sure didn't._**


	30. XXX

No one had ever been quite so delighted to be under investigation by the Department of Magical Law enforcement as Fenella. She didn't let something so frivolous as being accused of "aiding and abetting a known criminal" stop her from acting like her birthday had arrived half a year early. Anytime another student asked her about the investigation, a bright, slightly manic smile lit up her freckle-spattered face, as though she'd never been asked anything quite so flattering before in her life. If, for whatever reason, she wasn't asked over a period extending past ten minutes of conversation, she promptly corrected the imbalance in the universe by bringing it up herself.

One less so ecstatic about her newfound notoriety was Eustace Fawley, her father. In fact, Tom would even go so far as to say Mister Fawley's blood pressure would never recover from the damage Fenella was inflicting, based on the thick vein pulsing dangerously in his forehead whenever Tom saw the man, which, granted, wasn't very often. His distress, however, seemed only to fuel his youngest daughter's glee. Despite her ceaseless work assuring others of her own guilt— including certain members of Magical Law Enforcement— Mister Fawley worked that much harder, using his not-inconsiderable influence at the Ministry to undo the damage she was doing to his good name. To her dismay, he had all such suspicion dropped in two days flat.

Rabastan, on the other hand, didn't appear to care about the investigation one way or another, yawning his way through one interrogation after another, until eventually they decided he knew nothing of either Ophelia or Grindelwald, and therefor surely had nothing to do with her subsequent evasion of the Ministry at Hogwarts. By convenient coincidence, the Ministry received a sizeable donation from the Lestrange family the very same day, one that certainly had nothing to do with their abrupt decision.

For his part, Tom lacked the luxury of a wealthy, powerful family. The only relatives he had were either dead or wished they were dead, which suited him just as well. Just a bit of story-weaving and a couple glowing commendations from his professor's about his character painted him into yet another tragic victim of the Grindelwald line. It was almost too easy. Of course someone with Tom's record would be overlooked. People payed too much heed to appearances. Just because someone behaved as society expected within the public eye didn't mean they were at all the same in private. The only difference between "good" and "bad" people was that the former were sly enough to successfully hide their misdeeds where the former failed. If nothing else, Tom was sly.

He was also rational enough to know when it was time to cut his losses where Ophelia was concerned. It was time. Past time. She wore trouble the way others might wear a silk scarf, but while others could take it off, hers wound around her throat in tighter and tighter knots until it choked the ghost of life away. He knew that better than anyone. He knew she wasn't worth it.

He knew a great many things.

That didn't stop the phantoms. It didn't stop that brief, beautiful second of ignorance when Rabastan said something idiotic or Slughorn made yet another of his humble-brags that almost certainly couldn't be true, and Tom turned to share a look with Ophelia, like so many they'd shared before, only to remember, only to sink back into a hollow reality. It was all wrong. It was irrational and made no sense however he approached it and he hated it. He hated that part of him that didn't want to hate her, but still couldn't fight the intoxicating feeling. One he loved to hate and hated to need.

Even after severing three quarters of his soul, Tom never felt like something was missing— until it was. Ophelia had taken a portion of his soul and fled with it— literally. She carried a part of him with her wherever she went, whether she knew it or not, on her finger.

Dumbledore didn't have as easy a time feigning innocence, but after all records concerning Ophelia Ashwood— as they soon discovered "the girl" was calling herself— mysteriously vanished, there wasn't much they could do besides interrogate all her known associates. To their immense frustration, there weren't many associates to speak of. She was unmemorable in just about every regard. The few that did know of her only knew her in relation to Tom, and those that knew more weren't talking. Even her own dorm-mates had little to offer investigators besides her sparse suitcase, and Ephiriam, the only Gryffindor who may have known anything at all, feigned ignorance. His supposed clumsiness ended with the suitcase flying into the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace at some point. It was saved, unfortunately, but not without sustaining quite a bit of burn damage.

That was months ago.

A school year ended, a summer abandoned, and a new term begun in the blink of an eye. They expression "Time flies when you're having fun" didn't apply, however, as nothing about the situation was remotely palatable. The dread of going back, something Tom never imagined he'd associate with Hogwarts, was almost too much to bear. Even with his new status as Head Boy alongside Alice Crouch, he almost chose to stay away, to keep searching Ophelia out long past summer's bittersweet sunset. Hogwarts was his home, but so was she.

So was she.

Still, she covered her tracks well, Apparating from one country to the next at random left Tom, for once, at a loss. He, who'd never even so much as left England before his first ride up to Hogwarts at eleven, didn't stand a chance at covering enough ground fast enough to catch up.

What he needed was to set a trap.

III

Ophelia never intended to speak to her mother. All she wanted was one measly look at the woman who birthed her and then vanished— was that too much to ask?— but the second she laid eyes on her mother's soft brown hair, now newly speckled with gray, her feet moved of their own accord. It was the gray that did it, she thought, as silly as it was. Widowed Mrs Ashwood, the surname taken from her dead not-quite husband, looked nothing like her daughter, or vice versa. At least, she wasn't supposed to, but age had brought them closer.

Foolish optimism was what it was. Everyone's hair loses its luster as they fight the hands of time. She related no more to her mother than she would to any other aged person on the street, and that was the truth.

It didn't matter. It just proved that if, for whatever reason, she didn't have to deal with the consequences of other people's problems, she hunted for some more of her own, like bloodhound for unnecessary drama.

"Why did you leave me to die?" Ophelia took a step out of her cover, hating herself for giving in, hating the way her voice cracked and frayed at the edges when she swore she'd feel nothing.

The woman, the one who was her mother in title alone, and in none of the ways that really counted, turned slowly, painfully so. After what felt like an eternity, she stood in side profile, staring up into the dusting of clouds above them, and said without once looking at her only daughter, "I did wonder if you'd ever come looking for me."

Was Ophelia really not even worth looking at? Was that how little she mattered? All the self-doubt she thought she'd quashed erupted with violent force in her stomach, sapping away what little fortitude she'd scrounged up over the years. Ceaseless work, gone in seconds.

God, this was a mistake.

Snow crunched noisily beneath her boots as she took a subtle step back, preparing to bolt. Faster than she ever thought possible, her mother shot forward and took hold of her arm just below the elbow joint.

"Wait!"

Ophelia did her best to shake her off, to no a avail, pulling viciously on her own arm until her mother's grip burned deep bruises into her flesh. Her other hand flew instinctively to her wand to—to what? Curse her own mother? A squib with no power besides the waning strength in her ageing muscles? She stilled her tense arm just in time, hovering over her pocket, but the move didn't go unnoticed.

Mrs. Ashwood pressed her lips together in a thin line. "You truly are the object of his moulding. My little brother. But, then again, you've always looked far more of him than of me or Laertes."

Ophelia's heart stuttered at the mention of her father. A pang of something that was neither longing, nor even love, but it certainly wasn't indifference, lanced through her chest. She didn't know the man, after all. He'd died before she'd taken her first breath. She couldn't miss someone she didn't know, could she? And yet, there was still something, a certain wonder, perhaps. She'd been dealt one rotten family member after another, maybe her real father might have been different, had he lived. Her life might have been so, very different.

Or perhaps nothing would have changed at all. No point getting trapped in the past when it's already written. The only person that hurt was herself.

"You don't get to compare me to my uncle with such disdain when all he's ever done to you is clean up your messes!" Ophelia spat. "He may be misguided, a murderer and a lowlife, but you are somehow lower than even that if, even now, after all he's done, I'd rather he raised me than you! He was nothing but good to me, while the best thing you ever did was leave! I thank you for that, if nothing else."

"I agree," her mother replied, much to Ophelia's surprise— and fury.

She didn't want her to agree. She wanted to argue! To make her mother discover her own inadequacies and let the guilt hang her like a noose around her neck until she hung herself with it. She was furious, because if she wasn't angry she'd cry, and if she cried she'd never stop.

No one deserved the honour of her tears. No one. Ophelia refused to relinquish that much power to any one person, living or dead. Again, who benefited from it? Certainly not her.

"Hear her out."

Ophelia was so used to isolation, she didn't think twice about replying, "It's none of your business," to Julius, not thinking about how her mother couldn't hear the other half of the conversation.

"It's certainly my business," Mrs Ashwood started, just as Julius backed off with a flippant, "Just a suggestion. Geez, so testy these days."

Ophelia rounded again on her mother. "Actually, no it's not. I," she pointed to herself, shaking her head, "am not your business. You made that choice when you left me— and I can't emphasize this enough— to die."

"You think so little of me, Lae."

"That's not my name," Ophelia ground out, "and yes, I do."

Mrs Asheoods brows furrowed, wrinkling deep lines into her forehead. "Of course that's your name. I was the one who gave it to you. I haven't forgotten my own daughter's name just because it's been a few years."

"The only claim you ever had on me was my name, and now you don't even have that much. I chose my own name, just as I choose who I am, and I choose to let you go." In her surprise, her mother's grip slackened on Ophelia's arm, allowing her to rip herself free from the restrictive hold. "I really should never have come here. I have nothing to say to you, and there is nothing you could say to me that would be worth listening to."

Her mother recovered her slack-jawed expression into some approximation of indifference, though not an entirely convincing one.

Ophelia could respect that, if nothing else. She dusted off her coat and made for the tree line, where no muggles stood a chance of seeing her Apparate away.

"I didn't do it just for me, you know!" her mother called after her. "Looking the way you do, all— all gray, it was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots and came to take you anyway! You were obviously a witch, and even more obviously connected to Gellert! You look just like him! I did you a favour!"

"You did yourself a favour, you mean. You didn't want me. You just left! What if nobody found me? I'd have starved or frozen, but go ahead. Rationalise away." Ophelia directed her words at her boots as she stormed towards the tree line, and at the paw prints and thin snaking serpent lines puncturing the blanket of snow beneath them.

"It's not as bad as all that," Mrs Ashwood objected. "I knew he'd find you. Even though I hadn't spoken to him in years, he always had me watched. Constantly, day in and day out. When I didn't return to fetch you, I was sure he'd show his face. You were never in any real danger, so don't be so dramatic. My brother could provide you more than I ever could. He was the only one who could keep you safe, and he owed me as much, for placing my life in danger as he did. He made his problems my problems, so I made you his."

Ophelia tasted iron from chewing through the inside of her cheek. Just because she understood the woman trying so hard to justify her actions didn't mean she had to like it. Like her. They may have been blood, but they weren't family. That much was clear. They were no more or less than strangers. Their blood didn't run thick enough to bind them. Hell, cement wasn't thick enough either. Sometimes, blood just tied people down, and it was time to sever those bonds. Permanently.

And not just with her mother.

—or that's what she thought two and a half seconds before she followed the skittering line of paw sprints to a red-coated fox, sitting ramrod straight atop the snow, staring fixedly at her with his head tilted inquisitively to the side. That thought was followed closely by, Well, that's a bit odd. Those aren't native, are they? and then, Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Can't I catch a break?

Before her eyes, the fox elongated, it's arms stretching and it's torso rocketing up to her height, or maybe even a few inches taller. A generally well put-together witch glared at her instead, already twirling her wand in elaborate configurations before Ophelia could wade through her shock to muster enough sense to strike first.

She evaded the first spell, though it did sear the corner of her robes as she hopped out of the way, the thick snow making the idea of swift movement laughable at best. Luckily, she'd pulled out her wand in preparation of getting the hell out of there before any trigger happy witches showed up, and, having snapped out of her confusion, was happy to oblige the animagus with curses of her own.

"Watch it," Julius hummed under his breath. Ophelia followed his gaze to a whole lot of nothing.

Then, the air warped and shimmered yet another stranger into existence— a wizard this time, in long, ocean blue robes, shrugged off his tattered invisibility cloak, letting it cascade to the ground. While the animagus-witch deflected Ophelia's attack, he aimed a fresh volley at her head. She watched the spells inch closer from both sides, knowing that to deflect one would mean to take the other head on, and also that in the snow dodging was not a viable option. She could apparate, but would never make it away before they collided in the middle at her chest.

Out of options (and patience), she swirled the snow up in a frozen tidal wave around her and hoped for the best. When it crumbled to the ground, however, after luckily absorbing both spells— she's severely doubted that that crackpotted scheme would work out in her favour— a person who was most certainly not the animagus was standing in the witch's place while she lay still as death on the ground.

What the hell was going on?

Shivering violently from the ice melting through her dragon-hide boots, Ophelia made the objective decision that she didn't much care what was happening. She didn't need to know what was going on to know it was high time she got out of there.

"This was nice," she said, swivelling her wand back and forth between the two men, one still aiming own wand at the grounded witch and the other pointing his wand at the newcomer. Not friends, huh? "By all means, carry on without me."

"You'll be doing nothing of the kind," the newcomer growled, his gravely voice at odds with his youthful appearance. His intent gaze didn't stray from the other man, even as he spoke to her.

Ophelia almost rolled her eyes.

Yeah, like I'll listen you. That's just bound to be conducive to my good health.

She took a cautious step back, the snow swallowing her foot up past the shin. At once, both redirected their attention to attack her instead.

Actually, maybe it was time for some backtracking.

"Err... I'm sure we can settle this peacefully." Of course she didn't expect a peaceful resolution. She wasn't naive, but she needed to play for time to think of a way out of there that didn't include the words "as a hostage."

There was some consolation in the fact that neither were likely to kill her, if only a little. Evidently they'd been monitoring her mother for some time, hoping and waiting for Ophelia to show up. She never should have used her real surname at Hogwarts. Oh well. Too late.

Speaking of her mother, she may not have had much in the way of loyalty, or bravery, or even kindness, but Ophelia couldn't fault her sense. That lady needed no magic to evaporate into their air:

Alas, how history repeats itself.

The older of the two, the one who bore a strong air of condescension and was therefor, Ophelia imagined, most likely Ministry, spoke up in a thick, near indecipherable accent, "No peace. Your time is already up."

As if on cue, the snowbank erupted in a dozen sharp cracking sounds, like every tree in the forest snapped in two, one after another.

It wasn't the trees, though. The Ministry's of the world had finally found her, likely notified the second she showed up at her mother's side.

Except, they weren't the only ones.

"Uncle. You shouldn't have come."

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _I didn't proofread the last bit this time, sorry, but I'm super busy now, so I likely wouldn't have been able to post for at least another week if I did, and I figured a month was alread a long enough wait. Can you believe this is already 30 chapters?? That's wild._**


	31. XXXI

It seemed as though the whole world knew where Ophelia was at the exact same moment. Fewer people would have known her whereabouts had she materialized in the middle of a radio station and shouted her location into the receiver, or Apparated into the middle of the stadium at the final match of the Quidditch World Cup.

Spies were everywhere, it seemed, because one second Tom was half-heartedly studying for his N.E.W.T. exams, and in the next reality shifted. His own spied, serpentine in nature, sent to watch Ophelia's mother alerted him to the disturbance. Something was happening. She'd finally showed her face, that's what it meant. As though their signal wasn't enough, however, there was a rumble upon the stairs as several people sprinted up from their respective dormitories— and knocking into each other with a great deal of cursing by the sound of it. Fenella, the most vicious of their ranks, made it to him first, dragging the Fawley family house-elf by its ear, with Rabastan hot on her heels carrying another house-elf scooped up under his arm like a Quaffle.

"My father just got the news!" she exclaimed, forgetting to release the pitiable creature from her pinching grip. "They've found her, she's—"

"And Grindelwald," Rabastan added, rubbing a sore spot on his side and looking at Fenella resentfully. "He's—"

Avery and Knott appeared over their shoulders with their own house-elves in tow and looking inclined to interrupt.

Tom cut them off before they got the chance. "I know." He pushed away from the table, not sparing them any further inspection. "We need to move quickly."

They needed no encouragement, giving their respective house-elves directions to return to their homes and pretend they'd never left. The willingness they showed to spy on their parents via their family servants without his prompting impressed Tom. Loyalty was invaluable.

"So what do you think?" Rabastan asked, easily keeping up with Tom's long strides on their way Slughorn's office. "Should I set some of Slughorn's precious pictures on fire? Or how about spill all his potions together and cause some sort of mystery explosion? No, wait! How about I set _him_ on fire? That'll be sure to distract him!"

"There's a lot to be said for subtlety," Tom said flatly. "Stick to the plan."

Rabastan pulled a face. "I mean, sure. If you want to be boring..."

Tom did, in fact, want to be boring.

He waited outside the office as Rabastan went to knock, Knott and Avery blocking him from view with their massive bodies. A small scraping could be heard from within the room and a moment later the door was being drawn open. Although Tom couldn't see him, he imagined Slughorn blinking down upon them.

"What a surprise, m'boys!" he boomed in his perpetually loud voice. Seeing Fenella, he corrected, "And girl, of course. Wouldn't dream of forgetting about you, Miss Fawley."

Fenella smiled sweetly up at him, a sure sign of trouble for the discerning viewer. Fenella wasn't sweet unless she wanted something. Her ability to manipulate someone on command made her invaluable.

"Hello, professor. Do you have a moment?"

"Horace? Is there a problem?" The door creaked open wider to reveal Professor Dumbledore seated at a table within the lavish room.

That was one variable Tom hadn't accounted for. Damn him.

 _Damn_ him! Always meddling even when he didn't know he was doing it...

Rabastan, it seemed, shared similar feelings, sending Tom a discreetly alarmed look from over Avery's shoulder. Tom hardened his gaze and gave him a sharp nod he hoped Rabastan was intelligent enough to interpret as " _Continue as planned, regardless of that pesky Deputy Headmaster_."

There wasn't enough time for contingencies. He would curse his way past Dumbledore if he had to.

Fenella needed none of Tom's reassurances as she shouldered her way into the room without invitation, even going so far as to take hold of one of Slughorn's expensively clothed arms to tug him in after her.

"We were just so concerned about our Potion's N.E.W.T., sir," she said. "I'm not certain about my technique in brewing the Drought of Living Death. Am I supposed to stir clockwise or counterclockwise?" Turning her pleading gaze on Dumbledore, she added, "And, since you're here, Professor, you must know how hopeless Rabastan is at Transfiguration. We're both _doomed_!"

With her free hand draped dramatically over her forehead, Tom thought she was laying her story on a little thick. Nonetheless, he used the distraction to slip in behind Avery and Knott, who were adding in similarly pitiful accounts of how their own studying was going. Pitiful, indeed. Tom doubted either of them had opened a textbook in the last seven years.

Tom spotted the large, stone fireplace across the room. The distance he'd need to traverse unseen wasn't ideal, especially with one more staff member than expected who's cunning gaze he'd need to avoid, but it wasn't like he wasn't expecting a bit of trouble. What was worse was the methods he sank to to go unseen, shuffling along the floor, while the others drew Dumbledore and Slughorn's eyes away. Once, Dumbledore's focus swayed in Tom's direction and Rabastan panicked. Obviously not taking Tom's suggestion about subtlety to heart, he pretended to be mortally wounded about some innocuous comment Avery made on his lacklustre OWL scores. Before any of them could process what was happening, he threw himself over the table, knocking aside a pot of tea and several cups, and clocked the unsuspecting Avery on the jaw.

"How dare you!" he cried. "I, um, can't believe you would say that about me!"

 _Idiot_ , Tom thought privately. _And a pitiful liar_.

"Now, boys," Slughorn blustered. Tom got the impression he was more distressed about the destruction of his property than the destruction of one of his students. "This is uncalled for!"

Dumbledore was quicker to pull them apart, however. With a flick of his wand, Rabastan was dragged, as though by unseen ropes to one corner of the room and Avery to the other.

"Perhaps you should let them finish," Fenella suggested.

Gracious as ever, Dumbledore pretended not to hear.

With the hearth nearly within his grasp, Tom gave up all pretence of sneaking. The rush of emerald fire that came with operating the Floo Network would give him away anyway.

"Tom?" Dumbledore sounded surprised. "What are you—"

Tom reaches for the pot of powder on the mantle, tossing a handful at his feet within the fire place. "I'm going to do what you never could," he said, disappearing into the flames before the old man could recover from his confusion.

Let the old man make of that statement what he would.

The muggle village Ophelia's mother called home had no connections to the Floo Network, so Tom stepped out of the first grate outside of Hogwarts' anti-apparation barrier and Apparated the rest of the way.

Into a battlefield.

III

"Uncle, you shouldn't have come," Ophelia whispered, throat tight.

He was here. He came for her, again. Seeing him after months of near isolation was so surreal she almost couldn't believe her eyes. Around them, a dozen other witches and wizards popped into existence, many whom she recognised, with him standing tall at their centre. Several of the wizards and even a witch or two had height on him yet, but what made him stand out wasn't something physical. It was the way he carried himself. His effortless confidence.

And his omnipresent gaudy violet cloak.

Grindelwald flashed her a placating smile. "How could I resist the chance to visit my adorable niece?"

"This is a trap!" she protested. In three long strides she was at his side, tugging on his arm. "They're going to _kill_ you! Get out of here!"

"I think not. Their attempts to murder me should be amusing, at least. And we do seem to be surrounded, after all, in case you've failed to notice."

She hadn't.

On cue, one of the men, presumably an Auror rose his voice to be heard above all the others. "This is enough of your madness, Grindelwald! There is nowhere for you to run. Surrender now and spare us both unnecessary casualties!"

Ophelia searched for the voice in the crowd, only to come back blank. Probably smart for him not to single himself out as a target.

She went rigid as an arm curled around her shoulder and drew her tight to their side, but only for a moment, before she relaxed into her uncle's touch, identifying the musky smell of his aftershave long before she looked up at his face. It was bizarre how, even after all these years, she could tell it was him just from smell, and even more strange to remember that the last time he'd touched her like this he seemed to tower over her. Now, she stretched easily past his chin, almost to his own height. No longer a child.

"Unnecessary?" Grindelwald returned, his grin only growing wider on his pale face. "Unnecessary? Is a liberated world for wizard kind really so insignificant a task? My friends have fought and died for _you_ for these past years! We are on the same side. So ask yourselves, do you really plan to continue to stand in our way? In the way of progress?"

Ophelia wasn't sure how to break it to him, but she had an inkling that that's exactly what they planned to do.

As others slammed back with various iterations of the phrase "Yes, actually," Grindelwald leaned forward and buried his face in her silver hair.

"When the curses begin flying, we'll provide cover long enough for you to Apparate away," he whispered just loud enough to be heard by her ears alone.

Without thinking, her hand flew up to grasp his arm, still wrapped around her shoulder and she shot him a look of extreme apprehension. "What about you?"

He continued watching his adversaries with calculated ease. "We can't all go. They'd be able to hit us mid-Apparation. I doubt you've forgotten that fact, even after all this time."

Ophelia set her jaw. "I'm staying."

Grindelwald finally spared her a glance then, eyebrow raised. "You'll be forced to hurt them. All these people who want me dead or in chains. Are you prepared for that?"

Could anyone be?

She nodded nonetheless.

"I did hope you would say that," he said, before lifting his wand high above his head and descending the world into chaos, sending an explosive shockwave rippling across the land.

 **A/N**

 **This one's a bit on the shorter side, and it's been quite a long time since I've last updated but in my defense everyone I know keeps dropping like flies. 2019 just hasn't been fantastic so far. At least it still has a month to turn it around? Crossing my fingers that everyone else remains healthy**


	32. XXXIII

_"You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore? Above such brutality, are you?"_

 _"We both know there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom."_

 _—Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_

III

Tom had only arrived for a few minutes when the shockwave came out of nowhere, knocking nearly everyone in the vicinity to the frozen ground. So many were crowded in the vast area that he didn't see it coming until it was too late and all he could manage was to brace for impact, wand still hanging at his side.

An impact that never came.

"Careful, Tom," came a voice from behind him. "One should always be aware of their surroundings upon entering a battlefield."

Tom's jaw clenched. He knew that voice— and loathed it. "What are you doing here, Dumbledore?"

" _Professor_ Dumbledore," Dumbledore corrected genially. He cut his wand through the air, dispelling whatever protection he'd erected around them in an instant. "I'm rather late, I'll admit. It time to extract an explanation out of your friends as to why one of my students was sneaking out of the case beneath the noses of the faculty."

Irritation flared at both everyone he'd left behind in Slughorn's office and the man before him, despite— and in part because of— the aid he'd just provided.

"They told you?" he asked, working to keep his tone level.

Dumbledore swept past him, past the countless collapsed bodies around them. Unconscious, it seemed. At that observation, Tom hated the flash of relief he felt at Dumbledore's interference. He couldn't have afforded to be knocked out with the rest. Only perhaps a quarter of the original number remained standing, recovering from their surprise.

"Not in so many words," the professor replied evasively.

Tom made to follow, eyeing him with thinly veiled distrust. "And you're not planning on sending me back?"

"I could certainly try," he mused, "but I doubt you'd listen. Stick close, Tom."

Dumbledore was right about one thing. Tom had absolutely no intention of listening, and was in fact already making plans to ditch him when he saw her.

Ophelia.

Her hair was different than he remembered, now entirely silver to match the tall man beside her. Longer, too. He supposed she didn't have much time to waste trimming it if she was constantly on the move. The physical representation of all the time passed since she tricked him into falling asleep in the corridor while she escaped stung bitterly.

Ophelia broke free of Grindelwald's embrace— one arm draped protectively over her shoulder to theoretically shield her from the brunt of his explosive spell— and she ran through the maze of Grindelwald's followers, who evidently knew to shield against his spell ahead of time, towards the nearest fallen wizard. Apparently satisfied that the fallen were alive and not in immediate danger, she sighed in relief, her pent up breath smoking up in the chill evening air.

Then, across the field, their eyes met.

Tom moved faster, knocking into various Aurors and Ministry personal in his haste, leaving Dumbledore to trail far more cautiously behind. Gazes still locked, he saw rather than heard her say his name, her mouth forming the word slowly, like she couldn't believe the way it tasted on her tongue after so many months.

At last, any shock felt by those sent to apprehend, or more likely kill, Grindelwald dissipated. Spells flew from both sides, the mobile members of each side now roughly equal. Reflexively, it seemed, Ophelia blocked one such spell and ducked to narrowly avoid another.

It wasn't just plain curses, however. The ground shook and rolled beneath their feet, a fissure split the earth at Ophelia's feet, dividing her temporarily from her uncle and his faction, before Grindelwald leisurely waved his wand and crushed the fractured divide back together.

Ophelia tore her gaze from Tom's to prevent the tragic dismemberment of a witch, who's legs had begun slipping into the opening canyon. Grindelwald, stepping forward to pull his niece back into his sphere of protection, followed the trail of her focus, then past it, and went terribly still.

"Albus Dumbledore."

Although the chaos still persisted around them, it seemed as though they'd descended into a bubble where only the four of them existed. Even that was giving too much credit. Tom and Ophelia could have been miles away, for the thick weight of the air crackling between Grindelwald and Dumbledore banished them from thought.

"Good evening, Gellert," Dumbledore acknowledged with a politeness that, to Tom, came across as forced. "A pity we couldn't have met under better circumstances."

"A pity. Yes, you could say that." Grindelwald recovered some of his composure, shifting his expression into a supercilious smirk. That, too, felt forced. "A pity we couldn't have parted under better circumstances, either." Ophelia shot her uncle a sharp warning look he seemed entirely oblivious to. "I suppose I should be flattered that the great Albus Dumbledore finally graces me with his presence after years of deafening silence. The muggle's champion finally shows himself! Curious how much a man can change in a short few decades. It wasn't so long ago we were on the same side."

At the last word, he whipped his wand through the air, materialising rods of ice that launched themselves straight at Dumbledore, not caring for Tom and two Aurors that stood between them.

" _Uncle, no_!" Ophelia exclaimed, pulling upon his arm. He shrugged her off, calling for one of his followers to take her off his hands.

This time, Tom was ready. Even as he continued weaving his way closer, the rods closest to him shattered into sparkling crystal dust against an invisible wall. The others weren't so lucky. One Auror was speared through the arm, while the other, distracted by the swarm, didn't see another spell firing his way out of his blind spot. Incidentally, it didn't even come from one of Grindelwald's men. It came from from an another Auror missing his initial target.

As the rods approached Dumbledore, he effortlessly melted them back into water in mid-air, where they dropped with a splash at his feet.

"I do not wish to fight you," Dumbledore admitted. "Turn yourself into the proper authorities and end this madness."

Grindelwald laughed as though Dumbledore said the wittiest thing since Shakespeare. "Where has your pacifism gotten you, Albus? Where has it gotten any of us?" He spread his arms wide to embrace the world. "It is time for _real_ change."

III

Although Grindelwald's followers, as a whole, were more skilled than their adversaries, they didn't have the advantage of numbers. Even after he eliminated the majority of the Ministry personnel, initially evening them out, as time passed they were still at a numerical disadvantage, because more Aurors appeared with each passing second. Given that, no one particularly had any time to babysit Ophelia. They assumed she wouldn't be stupid enough to exit their ring of protection.

Well — surprise, surprise — she was.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, skidding to a stop before Tom some distance away from the worst of the chaos. "You should be at school!"

"I could say the same thing about you," he countered.

"No," she shook her head, "you really couldn't. Do I even want to know how you got here?"

"Doubtful."

Her lips twitched. "Fair enough. You should still go. though, I can handle myself—"

She rocked forward, off balance, as another shockwave crept up from behind. The force was somewhat mitigated by a repelling blast of air Tom aimed over her shoulder at the last moment to counter it, but that didn't stop Ophelia from needing to catch herself on the front of his robes.

"I wish he'd stop doing that," she muttered, begrudging her uncle's flair for the dramatic. A regular, more direct curse for Dumbledore would have been far more effective. But no, he just had to show off.

When Tom helped her right herself, he was slow to let go, allowing his hands to linger a moment too long before dropping them back to his sides.

He arched a brow. "You were saying? Something about being fine on your own?"

"Don't be cheeky."

"Then don't be foolish."

Ophelia rolled her eyes. "I forgot how pushy you were. Just physically incapable of minding your own business."

"You're my business," he replied.

"And you're a smooth-talker," she sighed resignedly, though without reproach.

Despite her words, she couldn't help the smile making its way across her face. She missed this. She missed the meaningless verbal sparring and teasing. She missed him.

"If that's true," Tom began.

"Which it is."

"Then I should easily be able to convince you to leave," he continued, giving her a flat look at the interruption. "If you want me to get out of here, you'll have to come with me."

She pressed her lips into a thin line and looked away, but something caught her eyes and they widened. Cursing under her breath, Ophelia shoved into Tom and sent them both sprawling just as a searing plume of fire weaved overhead.

"You do have a wand, in case you've forgotten," Tom reminded her, rubbing at his side where he'd crashed into the ground. "Consider using it next time."

She groaned, pushing off him and onto her elbows. "I can't believe I missed you. You sure don't make it easy."

Tom stilled, a brief flash of uncertainty flitting across his face. There and gone in an instant. "You missed me."

"Against my better judgement," she warned. "So don't get cocky."

His ego was big enough already.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Tom said dryly, recovering back into his composed persona.

Another earsplitting explosion rocked the ground and Ophelia winced. "This has to stop," she muttered. "At this rate, the Statute of Secrecy isn't going to be very secret anymore. Come on. Get up. It's time to get into the thick of things."

Ophelia didn't wait to see if he was, in fact, following, before running straight into the fold, spells zipping by like bullets. She needed to get to Dumbledore and Grindelwald. She needed to stop this before anyone else got hurt, before any of the unconscious people upon the ground died without ever realising what happened to them. The only option was to get her uncle to flee, because he'd never surrender. It wasn't even an option in his eyes. He'd accepted that he'd either live to change the world for the betterment of wizard kind— or what he thought that was, anyway— or he'd die trying. In this environment, with Dumbledore, with Aurors Apparating in from every corner of the world, death was looking more and more likely.

And it terrified her.

She feared for Dumbledore, as well. The Elder Wand was a frightful thing. As much as Ophelia hoped it would make her uncle invincible to injury, was it worth it at the expense of everyone else? If he got serious, and the rumours about the power of the wand were true, Dumbledore didn't stand a chance.

It could have been her imagination, but it seemed like far too many attacks were directed her way than was statistically likely had it been solely at random. A thin rope of light managed to twine around her middle, jerking her back.

"You'll make a good hostage," a witch whose short black hair tickled her shoulder blades told Ophelia matter-of-factly. "Expelliam—"

She never got to finish the spell. Her expression went blank and she collapsed where she stood, Tom standing, wand out, right behind her.

"Thanks, Tom. What did you..."

What did you do to her?

"I thought we were in a hurry," he prompted.

Ophelia nodded once, swallowing back her question, and plowed on.

"Uncle, you have to stop this," Ophelia called when she got close enough to be heard above the chaos, "You want to help magic-folk, not hurt them, and that's all you're doing right now. No one benefits from this bloodbath! No one! And professor," she turned to shoot Dumbledore a pleading look, "let us go. I know you want peace. If we leave now countless lives can be spared."

Neither of them payed her any mind, despite her being about midway between the two, so focused were they on each other. Even Tom was drawn into a duel with a wizard who'd seen him take out his partner.

Everyone was turning on one another, Aurors from one ministry turning on the Aurors from a different Ministry without any means of telling friend from foe. They attacked first out of fear of being attacked, out of fear of the unknown.

Ophelia dodged and blocked upwards of a dozen spells a minute, some of which were misfires coming from whenever her uncle or Dumbledore or even Tom deflected an attack.

"Please, no one else has to die!" she yelled in between attacks.

Ophelia shielded her eyes against the blinding light as two eruptive curses collided in mid-air, sending a wave of all-encompassing brilliant white flash rushing over the field. Not wishing to waste a single moment waiting for the flare to subside, people continued firing off curses blind. Spells could only be seen an instant before finding their target, making them difficult evade.

It happened quicker than Ophelia could move to prevent it. She flicked her wand to protect from a scarlet spell coming from her left, meanwhile twirling out of the way to avoid another coming from the right, never seeing the attack creeping up from behind.

The effect wasn't immediate. Ophelia had enough time to look down at her chest and gape at the unexpected damage she never stood a chance of circumventing. She had enough time to run her fingers over the blossoming crimson slash through her luminescent ivory robes. They came away stained with blood. Shiny, sticky, warm blood.

She blinked—

And stumbled to her knees.

This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Just as all light subsided, darkness began pulling at the corners of her vision loomed in closer, creeping like snakes and consuming like fire. Except it was cold.

So cold.

Roaring filled her ears and it took a moment to realize where it came from.

Tom.

Tom was screaming, only the words seemed garbled, distorted. Loud and quiet. Harsh and sweet. Furious and desperate.

She could make out her uncle's yell, too, but like it was through a deep tunnel. The air around him seemed to shift and bend. It exploded, knocking everyone within a dozen feet onto their backs and many others not so close off balance.

"I'm fine," Ophelia managed, trying to wave off the concern, but the words came out funny. Muffled. Slurred. Too quiet and uncertain.

The ground swooped up to catch her as she fell, only for someone else to get there first. The beautiful, horrible chaos of their surroundings faded until it was just him. Just Tom and the swaying sky above him.

She opened her mouth to speak, not sure yet what she intended to say- to console? Beg him to loosen his grip on her arm? To apologise?- but a rush of iron coated her tongue, drowning out the words.

Even as she fought to keep her eyes open, it struck her how beautiful he was. All sharp angles. With his new palor and ruby eyes, he could have been mistaken for something beyond humanity. He looked like a devil, but by Merlin she could have stared at him forever and ever and more, until her bones turned to dust and the world came back to ash. She regretted being too bashful to openly stare before.

Ophelia raised a single scarlet coated hand to Tom's cheek and brushed it tenderly. Although her fingers trembled, her gaze was steady; one black, one blue, and both fixed on his. Her thumb left a crimson trail in its wake as he leaned into her touch.

 _Don't cry, Tom._

She knew he didn't hear the words, exactly. It was more of an emotion, or a meaning, projected straight from her mind to his. She let her Occlumency shields fall, for the first time since they'd met, allowing Tom easy access. Once, he probably would have leapt at the chance to see what she was thinking, what she was hiding, but now he simply stared.

He couldn't cry. The women at the orphanage had told him he never wept, even as an infant, but as she swept her thumb beneath his eye, she noticed it left a light trail of moisture behind.

"I won't let you die," he ground out, just loud enough for her to hear as Dumbledore and Grindelwald closed in from both sides, reaching blindly around for where he'd dropped his wand. "You said you wouldn't create a Horcrux before, but you can't stop me from making you one now."

Tom didn't need to say the next part aloud: _And then, when your body fails you, I'll find a way to bring you back._

Ophelia's thoughts violently recoiled at his words. He could do it, if he tried. She had killed someone before. It was more than possible, so while he lifted his wand, she used the last of her strength to cover his hand with hers, pulling it back down. With a wistful smile, she mouthed, " _I'm sorry, Tom. Not this time."_

III

Grindelwald shouted for a Healer, though none stepped forward. Perhaps there wasn't any. Perhaps they didn't want to help their enemy.

"Who did this?" he roared, as Dumbledore knelt beside Tom, whispered incantations sifting through the air over Ophelia's wound, their feud forgotten. " _Who did this?"_

Too soon, the blood stopped flowing and Dumbledore went quiet, letting his wand drop to his side.

"It was cursed," Dumbledore said gravely after a time. "There was nothing I could do."

Grindelwald ran a hand through her silver hair, dyed red with drops of blood, whispering, "She's dead." He looked up, around, not registering his own words. His eyes, usually so sure, seemed distant, lost. "She was like my— my own daughter and now she's _dead_."

A pin could have dropped a mile away and it would have echoed like an explosion.

Grindelwald didn't fight when the Aurors surged closer, didn't even reach for his discarded wand, not until they attempted to pry him away from his nieces body. Her corpse. The echo of her that remained without her soul. No longer was he the fierce dark wizard capable of leveling cities single handedly.

"Who?" he wondered aloud, disbelief and grief cracking his words in half. "Did I kill my own blood? Was it you, Albus? Was it that boy? An Auror? _Who did this? Who killed her?"_

Tom asked himself the same question, pulling Ophelia tighter to his chest and squeezing his eyes shut, because maybe if he couldnt see it with his own eyes it wouldn't be true. It couldn't be true. What if he did it? What if it was one of his own curses?

"You fool. I told you we should have gone," he whispered into her hair. "Why did you never listen? Why? You could have lived forever. We could have, together."

Why did it feel like someone had carved a hole through his chest with a rusty dagger? Why was it so hard to breathe? No Horcrux could ever match this suffering. If cutting away every last scrap of his soul could end it all, he would do it. He'd find a way. Like he'd told her the last time he thought she'd died, it didn't matter what she wanted anymore. If she wanted him to be some sort of saint like her precious Dumbledore, she should have lived.

Dumbledore.

"You- You should have never come!" he rasped, looking sharply up at the professor. Rage flashed scarlet in his eyes, before vanishing again. "She'a dead because of you."

Dumbledore didn't say anything for a time, and then-

"I'm sorry, Tom."

"Sorry doesn't quite cut it, does it?" he hissed back, too many roiling emotions churning into something ugly in the chasm if his chest. "Sorry won't bring her back."

Dumbledore sounded infuriatingly sad, as though remembering something bittersweet, when he said, "No, nothing can do that. Not even the most powerful of magic."

"I hate you," said Tom venemously. And he did, with every fiber of his being. He hated him so much it physically hurt. Tom embraced the feeling. It didn't dampen the ache, but it distracted from it. "You'll pay for this!"

Dumbledore shook his head, looking not at Tom but at the Aurors drag away his old friend.

Tom hated him for that, too. Ophelia was dead. Dead! And Dumbledore still couldn't look anywhere but Grindelwald.

"Life is too short for hate, Tom. Ophelia wouldn't want—" he began, before Tom cut him off.

"You don't know what she'd want." Tom didn't shout. His voice remained dangerously level as he continued, "You barely know anything about her. She is not him." At "him," Tom shot a vengeful look at the spot where Grindelwald and his jailers Disapparated away in front of their very eyes. "You didn't help her for her sake. You can lie to yourself, Dumbledore, but you cannot lie to me. You hid her from the Ministry so you could regain a bit of Grindelwald. You did it for yourself."

At last, Dumbledore met his gaze. When their eyes met, his usually twinkling blue eyes widened at whatever he saw, at the rage simmering just beneath Tom's surface, at the fire burning holes in his grief. For the first time, the professor looked truly old.

Dumbledore looked away first.

And Tom looked to her. He looked to every part of her. His fingers tightened around her limp arm until it would have surely bruised had blood still flown freely in her veins. Yet more proof of the impossible truth he didn't need.

He hated Dumbledore, but by Merlin he hated her, too. If possible, he might have despised her more, more than Dumbledore, more than Grindelwald, more than himself.

He looked at the ring on her finger, hating that, too. He slipped it onto his palm. The air shifted slightly, but he dropped into his pocket before he could rethink his decision. He couldn't bare to wear it, not after her. He didn't even want to touch it.

Tom swore to make them all pay, everyone that brought them to that point. No one would be safe.

Least of all himself.

 _ **FIN**_

A/N

Okay, so before yall get mad about the ending, hear me out. I'm all for cinematic parallels, and I figured this one was fitting. Obviously she had to die to feed into the whole "Dark Lord" thing (again, sorry), the only question was how. You may or may not have noticed that this pretty closely mirrors how Dumbledore's sister died (or at least I hope so), with Grindelwald and Dumbledore fighting as well as the only one with their priorities straight (Aberforth and Tom). Also, the ambiguity of the who's responsible to haunt their consciences... Also, I tried to parallel the similarities between Tom and Harry from when Sirius died... idk how well that turned out.

this scene didn't turn out exactly as I planned, but I couldn't think of a way to make what I wanted to happen happen. I don't control the plot, the plot controls me.

Might publish the epilogue today or tomorrow, but it probably won't make you feel better. Sorry lmao. Believe me when I say I'm tired of writing tragedies.


	33. Epilogue Part1

Harry slapped a hand over his scar as another wave of Voldemort's anger swept over him, more potent and painful than he could ever remember. It momentarily stole the breath from his lungs and he doubled over as the new scene opened up before him.

Overgrown weeds were overtaking a crumbling building that Harry took a second to recognise as the Gaunt house from the memories Dumbledore shared with him in the Pensieve. It had always been rundown, but decades of disuse had even led part of roof to cave in and plant growth to scale the walls.

That's not what angered him, though. No, Harry had to remind himself. Not him. Voldemort. The fury came from Voldemort's mind, not Harry's, but at that moment it was difficult to distinguish the two.

Beneath the anger was something else Harry almost didn't recognise. Buried under layers of anger and the fear hid something even more devastating: anguish.

He'd left the ring there to put his past behind him, to close the door on his shameful mother and father and grandfather, just as he'd discarded the names they'd given him. If he locked the past away, then it couldn't harm him anymore.

But now the ring was _gone_! The last remnant of _her_ was gone. She'd had no possessions beside the single ring he'd given to her and eventually taken back. She was really, finally gone.

Repressed memories pushed to the forefront of his mind, vivid, and beautiful, and awful in their strength. It was like ripping off a bandage he didn't even know was there to reveal a wound that never healed.

Harry saw himself cradling a girl he didn't know in his arms. Blood splatter was everywhere, on his hands, on her face, in her hair, running in rivers from a vicious cut on her stomach.

White hair, white snow, white robes, and skin pale as death, all stained red with her own blood, like paint upon a canvas.

The girl, no older than he was now, blinked up at him with wary, soul-stealing eyes, and wordlessly mouthed, _"I'm sorry, Tom_."

He saw it over and over and over again, knowing he would not, could not, follow her to the place she was leaving to. He was going into eternity alone, to a future she'd never see.

But sometimes...

Sometimes, it feel like she never existed at all.

He found himself pulled into the vortex of misery, her nearly forgotten voice like a sickness and a cure. He wished it would stop, but couldn't get enough.

 _I'm sorry, Tom. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm —_

"HARRY!"

Harry snapped back into the safety of his own head with a gasp, where he was laying flat on his back, being shaken violently by Hermione.

"Alright, mate?" Ron asked, crouching at his side. "You're crying."

"I'm — what?" Harry swiped at his cheeks, surprised at the moisture there.

"What'd you see?" Ron pressed anxiously. "That was You-Know-Who, right? Did he kill someone? Is it anyone we know?"

Harry, still dazed, could only stare at him blankly. "What? No, he — he didn't kill anyone, at least," he hesitated, thinking of that girl and all of that blood, "I don't think so. But he's not very pleased that the Gaunt Ring is gone."

"Oh." Ron sighed in relief. "Is that all?"

Hermione crossed her arms across her chest and sent Harry a disapproving look. "You need to protect your mind, Harry. You can't keep letting this happen."

Harry, choosing not to address that tired argument, said, "It was... bizarre. Different from what I usually see by far."

His scar still ached, attempting to draw him back into Voldemort's mind, even as he rubbed at it in tight circles. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel the girl's haunting eyes from his mind. The terrified eyes of someone who knew they were seconds from death and embraced it. He prayed he would be that brave in the face of his own demise, hopefully many years from now.

"Are you sure you're okay, Harry?" Hermione asked, a frown clear in her voice.

He didn't know where to begin.

"I... er... think he had a — a girlfriend... or something," he said lamely, not looking at either of them.

As expected, Ron sniggered. "Not that Bellatrix broad, is it? Can't imagine what anyone would see in him, unless having no nose and no hair is their type."

"That's rude, Ronald," Hermione chastised him, before seeming to remember whom she was defending.

"No, it wasn't Bellatrix."

Apparently intrigued about another mystery, one they actually stood a chance of solving while they ran into walls on the last Horcrux, Hermione sank down into a chair and prompted, "What do you remember?"

Harry told them everything, from her weird hair, to her strange eyes, and the fatal wound in her stomach.

"And she kept saying, ' _I'm sorry, Tom',"_ Harry finished, looking from Hermione to Ron and back for their take on the matter.

Hermione stood up and began pacing the tent, tapping her finger against her folded arm as she went. "Well, it must have been a memory from long ago," she reasoned. "She called him by his name, his _real_ name. I don't think any of his followers these days call him that."

Harry felt stupid for not noticing that before.

"Not if they enjoy breathing," supplied Ron.

"What about the surroundings? Did you notice any other people?"

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't .

"I didn't see anyone else. He was too focused on her," Harry said, shaking his head. "It was snowing, though."

"I wonder..." Hermione muttered, biting her lip. "I wonder..."

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry before going for the bait. "Wonder what?"

"It's just that — well, I don't know. I'm probably wrong. I wonder if my copy of..."

Her words faded beneath the sound of her rifling through her magically expanded bag, until, finally, she pulled out a book.

"Oh no!" Ron groaned. "What are you carrying around that garbage for?"

Hermione sent him a withering look as she cracked open Bathilda Bagshot's copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ , courtesy of Rita Skeeter. At last, she seemed to find the page she was looking for and waved Harry over. Ron followed.

"Did she look like that?" Hermione asked, pointing to the picture of a young, handsome Dumbledore and his equally handsome friend.

"Uh, Hermione, that's a _man_ ," Ron cut in, as though perhaps she hadn't realised.

"Funny enough, Ronald, I noticed. Did the girl in your vision look like him, though?"

Harry frowned, looking closer. "You're right, actually. She did kind of look like that, like maybe they're related. How did you possibly know?"

For once, the knowledge that she was right didn't seem to please Hermione.

"I'd read in _Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century_ and _Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ about what Grindelwald looked like, and although this picture doesn't have colour, I thought it was worth a shot, based on your description. After all, silver hair and heterochromia isn't very common."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "Hetero— _what_?"

" _Heterochromia_ , Ron. Keep up. It's just what you call it when a person has more than one pigment in their eyes."

"I'll take your word for it."

"But how does she relate to Grindelwald?" interjected Harry. "He didn't have any children, did he?"

"He didn't," Hermione confirmed, slamming the book shut and stuffing it back into her bag. "But _Notable Magical Names of Our Time_ claimed he had a squib sister. Perhaps the girl was Grindelwald's niece."

Ron waved it off. "Who cares about him. I'm more interested in You-Know-Who. Weird that Dumbledore wouldn't have told you about something like that."

"Not really," Harry muttered, thinking bitterly of the majority of what he'd learned from Rita Skeeter's most recent best seller. "He didn't tell me a lot of things."

"Well," Hermione hesitated, "if it didn't have strictly to do with the Horcruxes, why would he mention it? It doesn't really help at all, does it?"

Harry couldn't quite bring himself to agree. Hermione hadn't felt the raw emotion that he, Harry, had succumbed to. She hadn't felt his hands — _Voldemort's_ hands — trembling as he held her while she she took her last breath.

"He loved her."

Harry knew it was true, as impossible as it seemed, the moment he said it. For all Voldemort claimed to despise love, for all he claimed it was fiction, he'd still loved someone, only to watch her die.

"You don't think he was the one to do her in, do you?" Ron mused, leaning back into his cot. "It wouldn't exactly be out of character for him."

"No," Harry said quickly, before backtracking. "At least, not on purpose. Like I said, he didn't want her to die."

That was the last thing he wanted.

"Very in character for You-Know-Who to love the niece of the second most evil wizard in the last century. With genetics like that, I'm sure she was _delightful_ ," said Ron in a way that heavily implied how delightful he really thought she must have been.

"Don't be a prat, Ron," Harry replied, not sure why he was being so defensive over a person he'd never truly met.

He didn't know her, but the memory of the brutal way she'd bled to death made him think of Ginny. He thought of how he'd react if she passed away in his arms after being killed before her time, and felt a jolt of something not unlike the fear, anger, and anguish he'd felt drowning Voldemort minutes earlier.

He'd do anything to avenge her.

Not just Ginny. Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville, or any of his friends. He'd want the person responsible to pay. The next thought came unbidden, from a part of Harry's consciousness he didn't even know existed — what if he didn't know who to blame? Who would he make pay then? Nobody? Everybody?

After stewing in his thoughts for a time, he finally voiced them to the silent tent, feeling foolish as he did so. "I wonder if her death was a catalyst. Maybe, if she hadn't died, things would be different."

Hermione turned thoughtful. "Could one death really do that to a person? I mean, Harry, you lost Sirius and you're not, well..."

"A homicidal maniac?" Ron offered helpfully.

Though Ron took it as a joke, her statement pulled Harry up short. He thought of the moments in Dumbledore's office immediately following Sirius's death, how he'd wanted to destroy everything in the room, how he'd wanted to make Dumbledore hurt, even though it really wasn't the professor's fault. It was almost exactly how Voldemort had felt in that memory. While Dumbledore talked Harry off that particular ledge —

Tom Riddle jumped, and Voldemort never looked back.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _By popular demand! One of my readers gave me the idea for the golden trio finding out and I felt stupid for not thinking of it myself. Part two of the epilogue (my original epilogue) will be uploaded later this week as I avoid preparing for finals. Be warned: Part 2 takes place 16 years BEFORE part 1. Chronologically, it doesn't make sense, but my decision making isn't based on logic lol._**


	34. Epilogue PartII

Rabastan placed a silencing charm around himself and the child, sitting on the icy steps outside the boy's house.

The screaming didn't much bother him — not anymore, not for a long time — but he reckoned the boy didn't need to hear his parent's torture. In truth, Rabastan didn't even know his name. No point asking. At a year old, the kid likely didn't know it himself, and Rabastan wasn't particularly keen on making conversation with a toddler.

He sighed, wondering how his life had brought him there and at the same time knowing he had only himself to blame. Thimgs could have been so different, that's what fueled the bitter churning in his chest. That's what made him hate her.

The girl he knew never to speak of again, even as her face turned gray in his mind, even as the sound of her voice turned to a soft whisper and disappeared in the riptide of time and memory. Somedays he'd think about her every day, every second, for a month, others he would go a year without her crossing his mind.

Were it not for meeting her...

She ruined all their lives, he thought. Not just her own, not just Tom's. She ruined more lives than she could count and she wasn't even alive to see it.

She could have made Tom better. For a brief, fleeting moment, it seemed like maybe she had.

And then she went and did the stupid thing. She died.

After that, everything changed. Rabastan's fate was sealed. Voldemort would kill him in an instant, like he had so many others, if he tried to back out of the path he led them down. Half of their yearmates were dead already. Some by their side, others at the nasty end of their wands.

Like Fenella.

She died on a night like this, under a deceptively pleasant sky, beneath stars so bright he could almost reach up and hold them in his palm. Rabastan wished he'd thought to die then, too. Alas, she was always the most sensible of them all.

Rabastan knew better than to think his old friend had actually been killed by the Potter boy. Tom and Ophelia thought they'd been sly in their veiled allusions to the Horcruxes, they never imagined Rabastan, behind his, foolish, whimsical demeanor, could have pieced two and two together, especially as Tom transformed into an unrecognizable fragment of his former self. He'd nearly laughed when the Dark Lord ordered him to place that chalice in Rabastan's own vault. The power he'd given Rabastan, without even realising it! What a fool. Or maybe he, himself, was the fool for never destroying it.

How Bella had rejoiced at that honour. Bella, who was married to his own brother. Bella, who loved the husk of Tom Riddle like no other.

Again and again, Rabastan implored her to be rid of that horrible infatuation. Nothing would come of it. No good ever came to the women who loved that monster. "The Dark Lord does not love," he'd say. It was true enough. The Dark Lord did not love her, at least. Bella would have a fit if she ever learned of the one her master might have once cared for, but no one was ever going to speak that name aloud. Not anymore.

"Ophelia."

Rabastan looked straight down at the boy and spoke her name, just one last, meaningless act of defiance. Wide, sleepy eyes blinked back, unknowing of just what was happening to his mother and father merely a wall away.

"They'll kill them, you know," he told the unnamed boy. "Even if they say what happened to Tom, to Lord Voldemort, your parents are going die."

He felt comfortable calling the "Dark Lord" by his true name there, within his spell's bubble where no sound could enter or leave.

"Maybe... maybe they'll kill you, too, when they're done."

It wouldn't be the first time Bella slaughtered a child for the sport of it.

The boy balled a meaty fist, seemingly in opposition to his fate. Despite his young age, he looked remarkably like his grandfather. Rabastan didn't know the man well, but back in school he always thought Ophelia was fond of the Longbottom, and he was sure he didn't imagine how Tom despised that fondness. Rabastan often wondered if that was the only reason that family still lived. Ephiriam's path had crossed more than once with the Dark Lord. His child's and his wife's path had intersected with his on occasions too numerous to count, and against all odds they kept walking away unscathed.

Not this time.

On a whim, Rabastan directed his wand towards the heavens and uttered the words to conjure the dark mark above the house. " _Morsmordre_."

An aurora of emerald light masked the stars overhead, weaving into a bare skull with a serpent coiling from its mouth. Someone, somewhere, would see it. Someone, somewhere, would look out their window only for a sharp spike of fear to stab into their heart.

And when the Ministry showed only a few minutes later, Rabastan didn't move to warn the others, didn't move at all. He let the Aurors disarm him and "rescue" the boy, as if seeing it all from far away. He held no illusions about his future. He would go to Azkaban, and if he was lucky he'd be long dead by the time his old friend re-emerged from the darkness he'd hidden himself in.

Rabastan was never strong enough to stop Tom Riddle anyway, even as children. When did loyalty turn into blind servitude? When did being supportive morph into cowardice?

He only wanted to be a part something great. Anyone could have seen Tom would change the world.

And Tom was great. Tom _did_ change the world.

He just wasn't good.

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _That's all folks! Thanks to those who stuck around this long. Your comments mean so much to me, even though I'm sure it may not have ended how you hoped._**

 ** _Not to shamelessly plug for my other story, but that's exactly what I'm going to do._**

 _ **THE LAST TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT: What happened in the Triwizard Tournament of 1792 that was horrible enough to get it cancelled for over two centuries? Alice is the last, unwilling, Hogwarts champion workig to unravel the mystery behind who was trying to use the tournament to have her murdered, regardless of who else they hurt in the process. Little does she know, the culprit is closer than she could ever dream.**_


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